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fuckallthegood0nesweretaken · 5 years ago

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The Dove and Her Hound - CH. TwentyNine

Title: A New King

Words: 2,040

Warnings: Slight language

A/N: It’s almost over! Just one more chapter and the series is done, I can’t believe it! Also, if you’d like to request something, send me an ask. I’d love to write something for you!

Taglist: @tonbluemchen @affection-rabbit @art-flirt @10morgan10 @thatting @iwontdance-dontaskme @simsvetements

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Sandor Masterlist

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Masterlist

~~~~~~~

It had been a week since your son had been born and many things had happened. You learned that one of Daenerys’ dragons had been killed, most of the fleet destroyed, and Missandei captured. Brienne had come to visit you and the child as well. She apologized for the way she handled things when she encountered your trio years ago. She did not know the significance Sandor had in your life and never knew how to approach you about it. You accepted her apology immediately and you apologized to her as well for your naïve attitude and your hate towards her.

The same night Brienne apologized to you, Jaime Lannister fled Winterfell to go back to Cersei. You had known that Brienne and Jaime were together and when you found out he left, you went to console her.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” you said. “If he leaves you for another woman when he had you then he’s not worth your tears.”

You wiped away the tears running down her cheeks and looked her in the eyes.

“You are strong. You are beautiful. You deserve better. Don’t let one man ruin things for you forever. It’s okay to still love him, but don’t let that take over everything.”

Brienne gave you a watery smile and sat up a little straighter.

“Thank you, Lady [y/n],” Brienne said. You stood up and kissed her forehead.

“You should get some rest. I have a feeling that we’re going to do some traveling soon.”

---

Turns out that you were right. A raven arrived from King’s Landing a week later and before you knew it, you were traveling down the Kingsroad. Brienne and Sansa hadn’t wanted you go with them because of the baby, but you went anyways. It took little less than a month to get to the Capital and it looked nothing like you remembered.

Buildings and houses were charred and crumbling. Ash was still on the streets, swept away into corners. The Red Keep was almost all burnt down. The people of King’s Landing were trying their best to rebuild their homes and lives but it would take years to get things back to the way they were.

The raven had told you where to go and once more, you found yourself in the Dragonpit. You were seated between Sansa and Brienne, your babe on your lap. Bran and Arya were next to Sansa. You were the first ones there. Ser Davos and Gendry were the next ones to arrive, with Yara, Robin, Yhon Royce, and the rest to follow. Another person showed up with the last group and you couldn’t breathe. It was Sandor, alive and well. The two of you locked eyes and your chest hurt. He looked like he was going to approach you when Greyworm brought out Tyrion before you in chains. Jon was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Jon?” Sansa asked Greyworm.

“He is our prisoner.”

“So is Lord Tyrion,” you said. “They were both supposed to be here.”

“We will decide the fate of our prisoners. This is our city now.”

“If you look outside the walls of your city, you’ll find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest.”

“And you will find thousands of Unsullied who believe that it is.”

“Some of you are quick to forgive. The Ironborn are not. I swore to follow Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow put a knife through her heart. Let them give him what he deserves,” Yara said, venom spewing from her words.

“Say one more word about killing my brother and I’ll slit your throat.” Arya’s face was ruthless and cold. Yara made to stand up but Ser Davos beat her to it.

“Friends, please. We’ve been killing each other for too long.” He turned to face Greyworm. “Torgo Nudho. Am I saying that properly? If it weren’t for you and your men, we would have lost the fight with the dead. This country owes you a debt that can never be repaid. But let us try. There is land in the Reach. Good land. The people that used to live there are gone. Make it your own, start your own house with the Unsullied as your bannermen.”

“I agree. We’ve had enough war. Thousands of you, thousands of us. You know how it ends. There has to be another way,” you said.

“We do not need payment. We need justice,” Greyworm spat. “Jon Snow cannot go free.”

Ser Davos sat back down and Tyrion let out a small breath.

“It’s not for you to decide,” Tyrion said.

“You are not here to speak!” Greyworm shouted. “Everyone has heard enough words from you.”

“You’re right. And no one’s any better for it. But it’s not for you to decide.” Tyrion looked up at everyone. “Jon Snow committed his crime here. It is for our King to decide. Or our Queen.”

“But we don’t have a King or Queen,” Royce said.

“You’re the most powerful people in Westeros. Choose one.”

“Make your choice. Quickly.”

Everyone was silent for once and was looking around at the other people. Nobody spoke until your uncle stood up. He started a little speech talking about him being one of the senior lords in the country and that he knew a little bit about statecraft. It was then that Sansa intervened.

“Uncle. Please sit,” she said. He kind of spluttered a bit and only sat down when Sansa gestured to his seat with her head. He backed into a pole and it took all your willpower not to laugh.

“Well, we have to choose someone,” Royce said. That’s when Sam got up and suggested that the people help pick a monarch. Everyone did laugh at that and Sam sat back down, more than slightly embarrassed. It was a funny notion, but you didn’t laugh at your friend.

“I suppose you want the crown,” your uncle said to Tyrion.

“Me? No. Half the people hate me for serving Daenerys and the other half hate me for betraying her. Can’t think of a worse choice.”

“Who then?” You asked.

“What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags?” Tyrion shook his head. “Stories. There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it. And who has a better story than Bran the Broken?”

You sat up a little straighter and looked at your siblings in confusion. When you looked back at Tyrion, he kept speaking.

“The boy who fell from a high tower and lived. He knew he would never walk again, so he learned how to fly. He went beyond the wall. A crippled boy. And he became the Three-Eyed-Raven. He is our memory, our history. All the wars, weddings, births, massacres, and famines. Our triumphs and our defeats. Our past. Who better to lead us into the future?”

“Bran has no interest in ruling and he can’t father children,” Sansa said.

“Good. Sons of Kings can be cruel and stupid, as you well know. His will never torment us,” Tyrion said to Sansa. To Greyworm he said, “That is the wheel our Queen wanted to break.”

“From now on rulers will not be born. They will be chosen on this spot by the Lords and Ladies of Westeros to serve the realm.” He turned to Bran. “I know you don’t want it. I know you don’t care about power. But I ask you now, if we choose you, would you wear the crown?”

“Why do you think I came all this way?” Bran said after a moment. Tyrion looked a little shocked that Bran had actually said yes and you knew that the other people in this meeting were feeling the same way.

“To Brandon of House Stark, I say aye,” Tyrion said. Everyone was quiet until you and Sam said ‘aye’ at the same time. Tyrion sent the both of you a grateful look. Your uncle was next followed by the men from the Vale. Yara and the new Prince of Dorne agreed as well along with Gendry and Ser Davos. Brienne agreed as well, but you saw that Sansa was trying to pick out words again.

“You know I love you, little brother. I always will. You’ll be a good King. But tens of thousands of Northmen fell defending Westeros. And those who survived have fought too hard and too much to ever kneel again,” Sansa said. “The North will remain an independent country, as it was for thousands of years.”

Bran nodded in consent and you could see the relief flood through Sansa’s body.

“All hail Bran the Broken,” Tyrion said. Everyone stood up and repeated those words. When everyone sat back down, Tyrion bowed to the new King and started to make his way out of the Pit.

“Tyrion,” Bran called. “You will be my hand.”

“N-No, your grace. I don’t want it.”

“I know. And I don’t want to be King.” Tyrion shook his head.

“I don’t deserve it. I thought I was wise but it turns out I’m not. I thought that I knew what was right, but I did not. Choose Ser Davos. Choose anyone else.”

“I choose you.”

“You cannot,” Greyworm said angrily.

“Yes I can. I’m King.”

“This man is a criminal. He deserves justice.”

“He just got it. He’s made a lot of terrible mistakes. He’s going to spend the rest of his days fixing them.”

Greyworm was angry and he spat out, “That’s not enough!”

---

After about an hour of talking, a decision was made. Jon would go back to Castle Black as a member of the Night’s Watch. You and your sisters wanted him freed completely, but you recognized that this was the only way for your brother to keep his head. You would miss seeing him every day, but you’d lived with this before so it shouldn’t be too hard. Jon was to leave that evening and you had a few hours before you had to say goodbye. Everyone was slowly trickling out of the Dragonpit when Sandor came up to you.

“Dove,” Sandor said quietly. You froze and slowly turned around.

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“You did.”

“Why are you here, Sandor?” Your voice sounded tired and Sandor could see it in your eyes.

“I heard you were here and I wanted to talk to you.”

“Talk about what? How you left me for some petty revenge? How I gave birth with you not by my side? How I have been raising our son without you?”

“I-I have a son?” Sandor’s heart skipped a beat and your chest tightened at the sound of his voice breaking.

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Eddard. Eddard Stark.”

“Are you going by Stark too?”

“Ever since you left me.” Sandor was silent for a moment. He stepped closer to you tentatively.

“Would you ever take me back?” You sucked in a breath, eyes wide.

“I know I fucked up and I know it will take a lot to fix it. If you’ll even take me back, that is. But even if you decide not to, I want you to know that I still love you. I always have. I’ll always love our babe and I will do anything for the two of you.”

His voice was so quiet you could barely hear it, but it was also so loud that it was ringing in your ears. Your eyes filled with tears and you gestured to Sansa to take Eddard from your arms. When your arms were free, you wrapped them around Sandor tightly. It took him a few seconds to respond, but soon you were being spun around. You let out a giggle that was cut short by Sandor kissing you. It was a sweet kiss that you broke shortly after it began.

“While I love kissing you, I think you’d like to officially meet your son, yes?”

Sandor’s eyes lit up and Sansa brought over your son. You took him from her and gently placed him in his father’s arms. You showed Sandor how to hold him properly and the sight made you melt. Finally, your family was complete.

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rose-writes-prose · 5 years ago

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The Guardian Lion: An Ice and Fire Tale

Elynor I: I

Summary: Elynor lived a life of comfort with her father, Tyrion Lannister, much to the annoyance of her Aunt Cersei, Queen of Westeros. Her world is shattered when her sadistic cousin, Joffrey Baratheon, is crowned King of Westeros. Now fear and war have split the Seven Kingdoms together, and no one is safe. Armed with nothing but her wit, her sword, her promise, and the love of her father, Elynor battles her designated fate in an attempt to save the Seven Kingdoms.

A/N: HOLY MOLY I wrote this four years ago and never finished. Wow! I would apologize for the lack of updates, but I don’t believe anyone knew of its existence except on Quotev and AO3. Even so, I’m excited to continue Elynor’s story. As always, I hope you enjoy.

Rating: I plan to keep this PG-13, but will let you know if it becomes more vulgar or grotesque. (mentions of prostitution, if that makes you uncomfortable)

Word Count: 2,941

The North was cold. It had always been cold and dull-looking. The terrain was bleak and gray, the rolling hills either covered with grass, rocks, or snow. The sky was similar, with a never-ending canopy of somber clouds blocking any sky or sun from the North's inhabitants. Elynor's companions shivered underneath their fur cloaks, looking bored with the landscape. The cold and gray didn't bother her in the slightest; she had prepared for the weather with multiple layers of clothes and furs, and she could see the color behind the bleakness.

The king, Robert Baratheon, had decided to pay a visit to his old friend, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Naturally, his entire family and their servants came along. The king and the other men rode their horses as the women and royal children rode in the wheelhouse. Elynor rode her mare alongside her father.

"Elynor," he called to her. He asked her if she was excited to stay in Winterfell.

"I am much honored to accompany the royal family to Winterfell."

Father smirked at her response and looked on past the hills. "You can stay with the party if you'd like. Once we are at the castle, I will retire to my quarters. I won't be missed."

Elynor frowned at this. "Will you not let Lord Stark greet you at the gate?"

"I shall make my presence known as is appropriate."

Once the parapets of Winterfell could be seen, a new surge of energy seemed to have possessed the party. No one but noticed Father disappear from the party and blend in with the crowd of people to make his escape. They were instead focused on Lord Stark and the King; the first of the two offering and polite and respectful bow to his king, the second pulling his childhood friend into a bear-hug. There was laughter from House Stark and Baratheons alike in response to the informal greeting of the king. He examined the Lord Stark's children and had quick words with each of them.

There was Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell. He was handsome, an ideal match for any highborn lady. Sansa was the first daughter of Lord and Lady Stark, young and pretty with her hair in elegant braids. Her eyes darted at Prince Joffrey ever so often, a pink flush on her cheeks when he smiled back. Arya seemed to be the only of the children to inherit the Stark's brown hair. Her sharp eyes took in everything around her. And there was Bran, who also looked just as curious but kept his eyes on the roofs above. To the left of Lady Stark was the third son, Rickon. He was tiny, too young to be a warrior just yet.

However, who caught Elynor's attention the most was a young boy about her age, standing just behind the Stark family. His eyes resembled that of Lord Stark's. His eyes were often downcast, rarely looking at anyone. They held sadness in them. Oh. He was Jon Snow, Lord Stark's bastard. He must have felt her staring because he suddenly looked up at her. She gave him a smile in an attempt of good grace, which he benignly returned. The gentleman next to him chuckled and Jon Snow's bashfulness, causing Elynor to send an apologetic wave before looking away.

The Queen, Cersei Lannister, had left the wheelhouse with her children and handmaidens, approaching the Starks with poise and assertiveness. She went through to the same routine of greeting as her husband before the King suggested visiting the crypt. The queen opposed, but all knew why he insisted on going. He wished to pay respects to Lord Stark's late sister, the King's first betrothed. The two kings went off, leaving everyone else in uncomfortable silence.

The silence was cut short when Arya asked, "Where's the imp?" a little bit louder than she meant to.

Cersei's polite smile turned into a scowl as she realized that Tyrion was missing. She turned to her twin brother, Jaime, asking where their brother was. Her eyes went straight at Elynor, ordering her to find Lord Tyrion and bring him to her.

"Now, Cersei," Uncle Jaime protested, "It's no trouble for me to find our brother. Let the girl rest."

Cersei shook her head. "The search will give a tour of Winterfell, which will be beneficial to her later."

Elynor had left the yard when a hand was gently placed on my shoulder. Ser Jaime held her still, advising her to rest in her room. She refused at first, knowing the queen would be displeased with such a slight. Jaime insisted that Tyrion would be displeased if she found him. The reason did not need to be said; he was at the brothel. Seeing that she was still unsure, he promised that Cersei would not know. She gave him thanks before excusing herself.

Back at the gate, she searched for the cart carrying her trunk. A helpful servant told her where to look. It was the only one left untouched, which was unsurprising. Why should anyone care to deliver her trunk to her room? Such a question did not matter, honestly. She had learned some independence from not being doted on as highborn ladies were. One bag meant nothing.

Elynor nearly stumbled back when she found a young girl just inches from her. It was Arya Stark. She stared for a good long while, eyebrows furrowed, examining her like some sort of animal from the woods. Elynor stared back, waiting for her to speak.

"Have you seen the Imp?"

Without reason, Elynor began to laugh. The girl seemed muddled by my giggles. "Where is he?"

"I'm sorry. You just surprised me. Yes, I've seen him. My father is sleeping in his room right now. We'd best not disturb him right now." She smiled at the girl, hoping she would believe the lie.

Arya's eyes were knit her brow in confusion. "When did he have a daughter?"

"About sixteen years ago," I answered. "I'm Elynor. It is an honor to meet you, my lady." She gave a respectful curtsy and rose to see her displeased face. She apparently didn't like her title; so, a handshake was offered and accepted more willingly.

Arya led Elynor to her room to place her belongings. Afterward, she offered to give a tour of Winterfell, which was accepted. As they walked, she told of how she preferred learning how to fight than how to sew, which mortified her sister and septa and amused her brothers. Elynor stated that both skills were useful, whether she became a lady or a warrior. Arya looked confused but nodded. They stopped at the Godswood, where six wolf pups were chained to a weirwood tree. Arya released one, calling it Nymeria. She spoke of how her father had found a litter of direwolf pups near their deceased mother. He had planned to kill them until he changed his mind and gave them to his children. Elynor smiled at the story, a new admiration for Lord Stark coming to her. She knelt to be eye-level with the wolf before extending her open hand. Nymeria sniffed it curiously, no doubt interested in the scent of old books and horse reins, before licking her fingers. Her tongue was rough, covering her hand in one swoop. Both girls smiled at the gesture.

Arya had little interest in life at King's Landing. Rather, she showed interest in Elynor’s ability to use a sword. "Do you really think girls can learn to fight?"

"My father had me learn," Elynor admitted, sitting next to her underneath the tree. "And most girls with martial skills are better than boys. Don't tell anyone, but I brought my rapier with me. Would you like to see it later?"

Before Arya could reply, a septa called out for her. Arya rolled her eyes, ignoring the call.

"Is that your septa? You should see what she wants. I promise I'll show you later."

The girl nodded before walking away, her direwolf trotting close behind.

"She seems to have taken a liking for you." a voice from behind commented.

Lord Stark and King Robert were standing on the other side of the tree. Elynor sprang up, lowering her head in respect. "My King. Lord Stark." She rose as she spoke. "Forgive me, I didn't see you."

"No need to apologize." Lord Stark replied. "What is your name?"

"Elynor, my lord. Tyrion Lannister is my father."

Lord Stark checked for any sign that she was a Lannister, though Elynor knew it was hard to tell. She was roughly two hands taller than her father, and he claimed she was prettier, but she could never believe it. Though her curls shone golden glints in the sunlight, it was consistently brown. All that she shared with her father were green eyes of a Lannister, which she claimed proudly.

"Tyrion's daughter," Lord Stark mused. "Are you taken care of?"

"Of course." That wasn't entirely true, but that's what he wanted to hear. That's what most wanted to hear.

He sighed and welcomed her to Winterfell before she excused herself from their presence.

That night, the Starks held a feast for the King and his company. Elynor had decided not to go, as she found parties overcrowded, and Cersei had advised her not to attend, as the presence of the Imp's daughter would be insulting. Well, Joffrey would be there, so why bother going?

She sighed, fiddling with the golden chain around her neck. It was a gift from her mother, though Elynor could not remember her. The pearl, her father had told her once, held significance to her family. Around the pearl were mermaids, each trying to hold the pearl up and support it. He then told her to keep it hidden from the queen and prince, who would be tempted to snatch it away. Thank the gods, neither of them had seen it for the many years she'd hidden it under her dress.

Eventually, reading alone became dull. Everyone was at the feast, either eating and drinking or serving food and drink. The night was calm and quiet in Winterfell. No one was outdoors. It was so peaceful. So pleasantly quiet. She knew better than to leave her room. Cersei would be infuriated by my doing so. But how would she know otherwise? She had refused Elynor from the feast. She had said nothing about going anywhere else. When her hand was at the door, her rapier caught her eye next to my bed. She wouldn't need it, so why was she contemplating carrying it with her? A long-forgotten septa's words came clear to her mind: A lady has no need for a sword at her waist. She hesitated but chose to hide the rapier underneath her cloak.

The sounds of laughter, drunkenness, and music erupting from the doors and windows of the Great Hall. Even the servers coming through the open doors were a little tipsy from wine and ale. A few insects chirped along with the music playing inside, the wind forcing trees to dance along. Though she knew she could never be a part of such merriment, the knowledge of its existence brought her some comfort.

Outside was a small training yard. Straw dummies stood guard over an assemblage of weapons: a plethora of swords, maces, the occasional axe, spears, bows, and arrows, and, most disturbing of all, a lone scythe. How fitting, she though. Targets were placed in a row across the yard, ready to be pierced by a quick, distant blade. Someone was already there, impassionedly mauling a dummy with his sword. His movements were agile and robust. His sword cut deep into the dummy, causing the stuffing to poke out of the fresh openings. If the dummy were made of flesh, the swordsman's mobility would kill him quickly and, hopefully, painlessly.

"Would you teach me that?"

The swordsman stopped his attack. Jon Snow's eyes held confusion, embarrassment, and disbelief. He clutched his sword firmly, letting it hang as an extension of his arm. His staggered breathing revealed the effort he had taken to maul the dummy behind him. "What?"

"Would you please teach me how to do what you just did?" He gave no response, looking as if she had asked him to breathe fire. "I do know how to use a sword."

He hesitated but beckoning her closer. "It's not exactly easy. So, don't be upset if you can't get it right away."

"Don't worry," she said, hanging her cloak on a nearby post and unsheathing my rapier, "I'm a fast learner."

Jon Snow showed her quickly: the ribs, the neck, a jab to the heart, and, "if she could," a deep slice down to the stomach. He demonstrated the combination, showing off his strength and control. After he was finished, he stepped back for her to mimic what he had just done. Jon Snow was stronger, no doubt; however, Elynor was agile. She approached the dummy slowly, analyzing her objective. She struck a blow to the dummy's ribs, whirled her sword up to its neck, and then stabbed the chest, driving her sword down to its stomach.

Jon Snow looked purely stunned as the dummy's head slid off of its neck. He was so perplexed, he dropped his sword. "How… How did you do that?"

"I just repeated what you did," Elynor shrugged. Jon frowned in disbelief, telling her to do it again. She did. Another innocent training dummy was decapitated and lacerated. Then, Jon Snow asked her to fight him. She told him no.

"Elynor, I hope you're going easy on that straw man."

Father was standing underneath an archway, watching the scene in front of him with silent merriment. In his hand was a tall wine bottle, which he drank from every few seconds. No doubt, it had been stolen from the kitchen.

"I assure you, Father, I am giving it nothing more than it can handle." his daughter laughed, sheathing her rapier. "What are you doing back there? I thought you'd be at the feast by this time."

"I'm preparing for a night with his family and mine." He pointed to Jon Snow behind me as he took another swig of wine. His footsteps led him to the training arena to lean against the fence. It was then that he moved his conversation to Jon Snow. "Your uncle's in the Night's Watch. I've always wanted to see The Wall."

Jon Snow looked down at him as if measuring him up. "You're Tyrion Lannister. The Queen's brother." Father nodded. Jon Snow looked at Elynor with a mixture of uncertainty. "He's your father?"

"Everyone seems surprised by that information.”

"My two greatest accomplishments." My father forced the words out, smiling tiredly. "And you…" He looked for confirmation from Elynor, who nodded to his unspoken question. "You're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"

Jon Snow turned to leave, obviously offended. Elynor bit her lip in discomfort from her father's bluntness. You would think that HE of all people would be delicate with that word.

"Did I offend you?" Father continued, unshaken. "Sorry. You are a bastard, though."

"Lord Eddard Stark is my father." Jon Snow defended himself.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother," Father finished. "Making you the bastard." He looked at me. "I say this to Elynor all the time. Let me share a piece of wisdom with you. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

Father bowed before going inside, drinking from his bottle of ale on the way. However, Jon Snow was not finished.

"What do you know about being a bastard?"

Father pursed his lips and turn to face the Stark bastard. "All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes." Taking another swig, he left and went inside the Hall.

Bastard. The cursed word of Westeros. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from; if you were a bastard, the world would be cruel to you until you die. You were a disgrace to your house, a scandal. No titles or land would be given to you under any circumstance. A man's only chance to have or be something in the world would be to join the Night's Watch and pray to the gods for a high rank. A woman had no such opportunity; marriage was the only solution, be it an uncertain one. Becoming a maester or septon was also possible, but few were called to those positions. Either way, you were left to feel worthless and discreditable.

Jon Snow certainly understood that more than anybody. He may have been allowed to live in his father's home, but his own family had shunned him from the feast, probably from other esteemed events as well. He knew his only chance for respect was to go to the Wall and join the Night's Watch. According to Arya, he would be going in over a fortnight.

Jon Snow threw all of his anger and frustration at the dummy. Elynor flinched, remembering the sad eyes she had seen that morning.

"I'm sorry if my father was too blunt,” Elynor apologized. “Sometimes he forgets how fortunate he is to be a legitimate son of a lord. I understand how you feel to be seen as less than by your own family-"

"What do you know about being a bastard?"

His words were sharp and cold, cutting deep within like a dangerously sharp sliver of ice. Elynor's felt her cheeks grow hot as she grabbed cloak. Before leaving, she bade him goodnight and left him with brief, yet essential words.

"I'm Elynor Hill, Tyrion Lannister's bastard."

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #got #jon snow #tyrion lannister #game of thrones oc #original character #fanfiction #asoiaf fanfiction

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wolfqueen-is-here · 6 years ago

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Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten (Jonsa Secret Santa 2018)

Dearest @moonchildslife, I am so sorry for my delay, Christmas was crazier than I expected, and I didn’t finish my gift on time. But it is here now, and I hope you don’t find it too terrible ;). I wish you a wonderful year with Jonsa becoming canon in April and our fandom wishes coming true. Be happy, be healthy, be yourself! <3

Many thanks to @jonsasecretsanta2018 who made all of this happen, you truly are amazing!

A/N Don’t be alarmed by a brief mention of the Hound. I promise you, it has nothing to do with SanSan in any way except mentioning The Un-Kiss. Book!canon, but mostly show!canon, can be interpreted both as a filler and an AU. 2300 words

Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten

Every now and then Sansa remembers, even though she has tried so hard to leave the past behind. The Hound was rough and scary, but the kiss that he took left a lingering taste on her lips—it was as soft as snow, almost familiar, she’s caught herself missing the shy affection that came with the kiss, a wary touch so vulnerable it felt almost childish. She remembers the kiss that he took. The only thing she doesn’t remember is him taking it.

Every night feels longer and darker than the former ones. It isn’t until she jumps from Winterfell walls that she remembers how to feel warm again, but the road north is as cold as ice and covered in snow. “His lips felt warm”, she thinks as she runs towards her freedom. “The kiss that he took, it felt warm.”

There are times when she is almost certain that she gave it willingly.

—

“You look cold,” Jon says after staring at her in silence for a good half an hour. It would annoy her beyond reason, were it anyone else, anyone less trustworthy, anyone less… Jon, but coming from him it’s almost flattering. No one has ever cared for her so since she’d lost Father. Not once until this very moment has she felt safe since then.

“I’m okay,” she smiles. His unblinking eyes refuse to leave hers even for a second as if she’d vanish otherwise. Sansa leans towards him and strokes the inside of his palm with her thumb. It’s the most innocent of caresses, but it makes Jon stiffen and finally lower his head. She misses the stare instantly. “I’m okay, Jon.”

She tastes his name on her tongue. It feels rough—when was the last time she used it? —but sweeter than all the cake she’s ever had. She wants to swallow it, possess it, make it hers. “Jon,” she muses. “Jon. My Jon.”

If it’s something more primal than sisterly affection, she doesn’t recognise it in time. It may occur to her later, but it will be too late.

—

The first night that she spends at Castle Black is a sleepless one. The shadows are long when she paces aimlessly around the room, too exhausted to fall asleep, too cold to lie still. Knocking at the door alerts her at first—she’s not used to feeling safe yet—she whispers: “Who’s there?” so quietly as if she were hoping nobody would answer.

“It’s me,” Jon says.

She lets him in.

“Do you have everything that you need?” he asks, looking at her with a strange longing.

Had it been more fitting, she’d say: “I have you,” but in their current situation she’d stumble over the words for certain. Instead, she just invites him to stay—just sit next to her and not talk until the sun rises and the shadows go back under her bed. They repeat it every night after that, it seems to comfort both of them.

—

Jon’s eyes follow Sansa as he tries to find something—anything—that would remind him of a little girl she used to be. Her skirts dance when she rocks her hips, walking around Castle Black like she’d lived here all her life. He wants to avert his gaze but finds it impossible. She’s grown so tall, so slender—so beautiful.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks angrily, hiding his face in his hands. “You are not allowed to look at her like that.”

There were times, many lives ago, when they were only children. Sansa’s hair was more orange than auburn, Jon’s face—smooth, not a trace of beard or scars on it. They both called lord Eddard Stark their father. They both walked around holding Robb’s hand. They both watched Bran fall asleep while they were singing lullabies. Both, yes, but not—together.

When he tries to think about their lives before everything happened, before he went north and she went south, he keeps coming back to that one particular memory. And he’s not allowed to remember it. Not ever.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks, but as her lips move while she’s telling him another story, he watches. The redness of them almost provocative, they look like she’s been biting them for the past few hours. It’s a mesmerising set of colours: her lips with a raspberry tint, screaming to be tasted, licked, devoured; her eyes, deep blue almost exactly like the ones that used to follow him with disdain when he was nothing more than a bastard boy, but there’s no disdain in Sansa’s eyes, only hope. Her fair complexion contrasts with the dark streaks of her auburn hair, almost brown in the dimly lit room. Jon quashes the need to cup Sansa’s cheek and stroke it with his fingers, to check if her soft, unwavering beauty isn’t only a product of his hallucinations. He wouldn’t dare.

—

Sansa enters the dining room when there’s barely anyone left. A few wildlings share a horn of ale, laughing. There’s also Edd sitting in the furthest, darkest corner, and he looks really down—Edd always looks down, that’s an inherent part of his personality, “The defining part”, Tormund insists, but Sansa doesn’t care, because Edd, albeit rather shy, is kind and caring, and that’s more than she could expect from a stranger. The wildlings terrify her still, she doesn’t know their customs, they’re far too loud and bold for her taste, so she chooses to cross the room and take a sit in front of Edd.

They don’t talk, there’s no need for it. Sansa eats her soup, wondering whether Jon has already eaten, and Edd just keeps staring at the ceiling. Weirdly, his silent presence comforts Sansa more than any words could.

When everybody leaves, Sansa reaches for Edd’s half-empty horn and moves her hand up and down its uneven surface. It’s become apparent these past few days that sleep refuses to come easily for her at Castle Black, and when she finally drifts off after hours of rolling over from side to side, her dreams are filled with memories—but are they real? Are they hers?

She doesn’t think about the Hound that often. He’s been a big part of her life when she was a prisoner in King’s Landing, but her fascination with his tragic story faded and went by long ago. She cannot remember his face anymore, only the scars, she doesn’t even know if she’d be glad to see him again. The memories of him and the torments from the Lannisters became too inseparable in her mind, and that’s why she doesn’t want to think of him or imagine their meeting.

Not now. Not ever.

Then why is her brain so set on bringing back the memory of the kiss? She can feel a sweet breath on her chin every morning when she wakes up from her blurry dreams—why is it sweet? Wasn’t the Hound monumentally drunk that night?—she can taste it, again and again. Her first kiss, that one thing she knows for sure. She’d gotten a few pecks from Joffrey, yes, they should probably count as first, but somehow it doesn’t feel right.

She closes her eyes and clasps her hands around the horn.

“I thought you weren’t fond of our ale,” Jon says, suddenly very close—how did he get so close without Sansa hearing his steps? Did she black out again?

“I heard it helps to forget.”

“It does,” his voice sounds worried, “for a while. It doesn’t make your past go away.”

Sansa raises her head and their eyes lock immediately as if they’re a couple of lovers always on a mission to find each other.

“For a while,” she repeats. “Sounds better than never.”

The ale tastes much worse than she remembered it—it’s bitter and stale, and reeks of old, damp barrels—but her lips don’t leave the edge of the horn until it’s empty. Jon’s eyes move to her throat as she swallows and stay there even after she’s finished.

At first, she doesn’t think anything’s changed—the same emptiness fills her, the same desperation—but minutes pass as they sit opposite one another in silence, and her head finally starts to feel both lighter and heavier, her thoughts stir inside her brain, but never fully form. It’s a bliss. It’s a curse.

She sits in the middle of a meadow, it’s late summer. The winds got chilly but she’s got a blanket around her arms. She’s knitted it herself. She’s content. She’s happy. She’s Queen Naerys Targaryen.

“Are you alright? That’s quite a lot of ale you just inhaled,” Jon murmurs, gently touching her arm. Sansa looks up and smiles at him.

“I’ll be fine,” she answers. “I’ll be fine, Jon. You can go to sleep, you look tired.”

He laughs hoarsely and it makes Sansa’s belly tighten.

“Not until I see you safely tucked under your furs.”

He approaches her with his back straight and a sword at his side. Where did he get that sword, she thinks briefly but continues to look at his beaming face.

“I’ve come to rescue you, my Queen.”

“You can’t, my love,” she says, remembering to dress her face in the deepest, most regal shade of sadness. “We’re bound to our fate forever. You’ve made your vows, as I have made mine.”

He kneels before her. He’s brave, he’s gentle, he’s strong. He’s Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

Sansa tries to stand up all too quickly, her head spins violently and she has to hold on to the table to avoid falling. She can barely feel her legs and her arms—how strong was that ale?—but the burning hotness of Jon’s hand on her lower back, oh, that she feels.

“Careful,” he says, pulling her closer and throwing her arm around his neck. “You’re still much too weak to start drinking so heavily. Don’t let go, alright? I’m going to walk you to your chambers now.”

And he proceeds to do just that.

When Sansa lies in bed feeling truly sleepy for the first time since she’s reached Castle Black on her dying horse, she suddenly remembers everything.

His face is just inches away. He’s wearing his hair pulled tightly in the back like a true adult, but he’s been playing with swords all day and a few strands have escaped the knot, hanging loosely around his face. She feels the urge to curl one of them around her finger but before she decides to make a move, he leans in and kisses her on the lips.

It surprises her—the lightness of it as much as the act itself. “It’s not wrong as long as I’m Queen Naerys and he’s Prince Aemon,” she tells herself as she involuntarily moves closer and exhales into his warm mouth. His fingers wander up and down her sleeve, curious but never inappropriate. The kiss doesn’t last long, a few heartbeats maybe, but before it’s finished, she can hear him whisper: “Sansa.”

And instantly he’s Jon again, and she’s Sansa. And they’ve done something unforgivable.

—

Jon’s almost asleep when he hears banging at his door. He jumps out of bed and rushes to open it only to find a breathless Sansa on the other side. Her eyes are wide, and she looks absolutely terrified. If she’s still a bit in her cups, it doesn’t show.

“What happened?” he asks.

She’s shivering. He wants to put his hand on her arm but she jumps away.

“You kissed me,” she hisses, her tone accusatory.

Jon blinks. Not that he hasn’t thought of it, because of course he has. He won’t admit it to anyone but though he tried extremely hard to see his long-lost sister in the beauty that has brought him back to life, he failed miserably. The truth is—she was never a sister to him, not even before they parted ways.

“I assure you,” he answers quietly, “I did not. I didn’t even enter your chambers, I asked lady Brienne to help.”

“Not tonight,” Sansa sighs and Jon realises she’s standing before him barefoot, dressed only in some old sleeping gown, but somehow she’s never looked more queenly with her demanding expression and fiery glare. “When we were children. A few months before we left Winterfell. We played… we played, and you…”

And he kissed her.

He kissed her and he never regretted it once until she came to him, crying, and ordered him to forget it ever happened. He didn’t want to, it was too precious a memory, but he obliged. For Sansa.

“I thought we weren’t speaking of it,” he whispers carefully.

She was really shook when she came to him that day, he never wanted to see Sansa cry, and to be the reason for her despair—it was too much for him to bear.

“We aren’t. I just… I forgot.”

“You forgot?” he asks, feeling hurt. It was his only kiss before Ygritte and he wasn’t even allowed to savour that memory. How could she have forgotten?

“I’m sorry,” she says. “What we did… it was wrong. I didn’t… I couldn’t… I think I repressed it. I made myself believe it happened with someone else.” She lowers her head and he’s afraid to spook her by asking who that person was, but he’s certain it will haunt him forever. Was it Joffrey? Gods, he hopes it wasn’t him. Jon couldn’t bear it. Sansa makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat. “But I remember now.”

He doesn’t know what more to say, but Sansa doesn’t seem to expect any kind of explanation. It happened. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And it changed things between them.

Sansa finally dares to look at him. Her lips are parted, ready as they were in that meadow years ago. He doesn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. When they win back Winterfell, when the war is over—she will come to him of her own volition.

And he will have that second kiss, gods be damned.

#jonsa secret santa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsasecretsanta2018 #jonsa #jon x sansa #got #a gift for moonchildslife #secret santa #gift

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reader-imagines-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Vows [Part 5] (Jaime Lannister x Stark!Reader)

a/n: aaahhh! hi! im back! im sosososo sorry that i was gone for so long oh my gosh! school hit me like a ton of bricks and i needed some time to get in the swing of things! take this and enjoy and guess what? i'll have part 6 up tomorrow along with a filled request! enjoy, loves, and thank you for being so patient and understanding!

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9

TAG LIST: @queen-of-the-north-amina @avistella @chippychipmunks @buckybarnesisalittleshit @chloehamiltonn @millie67 @doctorwhoandrory

WORD COUNT: 2,093

*************************************

"Choices, choices. Take the bridge and risk being seen by anyone or cross the water and,"

Brienne tugged on Jaime's chain, the not-so-golden-anymore Lion stumbling. Although he had almost fallen flat on his front, Jaime's smirk held strong.

"Silence, Kingslayer."

His smirk fell.

Out of habit, Y/N corrected her. Y/N corrected anyone who called Jaime by that title, no matter who they were. After Jaime had confessed to her that he hated it, she began hating it too.

"His name is Jaime."

Both knights looked at Y/N curiously, but she paid no mind. Jaime's eyes lingered but Y/N was determined not to look his way.

After discovering that she was with child, Y/N had taken to avoiding her husband. Her time in her brother's camp, two months to be exact, was filled with sneers and taunts thrown her way each time she ventured from her tent. 'The Lannister Bitch' they called her. These men, pledged to her house and sworn to be loyal. Calling her child a bastard because of her marriage to the enemy. A marriage she had no say in. To a man she had grown to care about despite the devastating heartbreak he had put her through.

Y/N felt that she deserved every taunt thrown her way.

Y/N felt like a coil, wound so tight that she may never straighten again. She had been forbidden to relieve her stress in the tilt-yard as she had throughout her childhood. The second that she had picked up her sword, Catelyn was there to scold her for endangering her heir. Her sword was confiscated and Y/N felt defenseless. Left to sit and watch her twin plan and do the fighting, Y/N was constantly on edge and ready to argue. Hormone imbalances due to pregnancy didn't do her any favors, either.

Robb had finally snapped and confined her to her tent when she questioned his betrayal of the Frey's in front of his counsel. Her twin had accused her of siding with the Lannisters, all but calling her a common whore, before banishing her from the tent. Y/N felt like a prisoner among her own family.

When Catelyn approached her that night, telling her that she needed to get Sansa and Arya back, Y/N had been immediately on board. Anything to feel free again, even if only for a short time.

Catelyn knew that traveling while with child was especially treacherous, but she also knew that where Jaime went, Y/N would have to follow. She was a Lannister now, pregnant with a Lannister cub. It broke Lady Stark's heart to send her daughter back into the lion's den, but Y/N knew she had no choice. It was expected, and would lead to less conflict. 'From this day until my last day' they had said.

So, in the dead of night as Robb and the camp slept, Catelyn watched as Brienne's horse led Jaime's out of the camp by a chain, Y/N following on her own. In the pit of her stomach, Catelyn knew that she would never see her eldest daughter again. It was a mother's intuition, and it was painful. Her family was being torn apart before her very eyes, and she was all but feeding Y/N to lions.

A week into their journey, Y/N knew that Jaime was purposefully being a pain in the arse to inconvenience Brienne. This irritated Y/N to no end.

Constantly plagued by nausea and forced to sleep on the forest floor, only three dresses in her pack and hardly any chances to bathe, Y/N absolutely loathed Jaime's attitude. She wanted her husband's support and maybe some gratitude for helping him escape. Instead, Y/N got snark and constant sarcasm. Putting Jaime in his place became a common pastime for Y/N. Jaime would never say it aloud, but he absolutely loved it when Y/N would bite back at him.

Currently, Y/N stared at the rushing river in front of them with hungry eyes, feeling the weeks worth of grime on her skin all the more now that the prospect of a bath dangled in front of her. She knew there was no time, and it took physical restraint not to rush into the cool water.

Jaime continued to talk, his usual condescending tone light on his words. The tone brought Y/N back to the situation at hand, causing her heart to ache as she thought back to the early days of their marriage, before their world went to shit.

"Cross the bridge and risk being seen by anyone passing by, but cross by water and risk being taken by the current or my escaping down stream."

Y/N scoffed, "Good luck with that, dear husband. You'd drown and I'm not jumping in to save you. Neither is Brienne."

Jaime shrugged, smirking. "It's wonderful to watch you struggle with these dilemmas, darling. You're jaw clenches and it's really very endearing."

Y/N didn't acknowledge Jaime's term of endearment. "The bridge is safer. In the water we risk being overturned with a boat of that size and three people. Again. The water is cold and the current is too strong. It's too dangerous. We'll cross casually and hopefully raise no suspicions."

Jaime rose an eyebrow, still smirking. "Well, well. The new Lady Lannister, a gambler. The country will have an absolute fit."

=========================

Stepping onto the bridge, Brienne took the rear with Y/N at the head.

The threesome walked briskly before Jaime decided to sit, complaining that he needed to rest.

Y/N knew exactly what he was playing at and she hoped she could keep him moving. "Jaime, sweet, please. Now is not the time for thi-"

"I've been on my feet far too long, darling. Corns. I never used to get corns. Of course, I used to ride everywhere."

Brienne pulled on Jaime's chain, looking around in paranoia. "Get up, now!"

Y/N was about to speak when Jaime reached and stole Brienne's sword from it's sheath, cutting his weak chain and standing at the defense.

Brienne was down a sword, but still prepared to fight. She was completely prepared to defeat the Lion of Lannister, but Y/N held a hand up, stopping her.

Brienne paused, hoping that Y/N had not hoped to side with her husband. She wouldn’t be able to hold them both off, unwilling to harm Y/N. Brienne’s eyes widened in shock as she was proven wrong.

"Brienne, your sword if you would?"

Brienne hesitated, as did Jaime. But the knight conceded nervously and Jaime stood his ground.

Y/N tested the sword in her hands, the hilt feeling at home as it pressed into her palm. Y/N had missed swordplay. Desperately.

"Stand down, Jaime."

Y/N's voice was steel, cold and hard. Jaime had never heard her speak that way. Upset? Yes. Broken? More times than he'd like to think about. But the steeled and passive way she spoke now was something Jaime had never heard.

"Now, now, Y/N. Gambling and threatening your Lord Husband? I thought Starks were honorable?"

Brienne went to step forward, but Y/N again stopped her.

"Let me handle this, Brienne. You swore a vow to my mother not to harm him. I swore nothing. Keep watch."

Y/N could see that Jaime faltered slightly, fighting to keep his cocky facade.

"You wouldn't kill me. Our wedding was nothing but vows. You did swear."

Husband and wife danced circles around each other, both staying on the defense but neither quite willing to make the first lunge.

Y/N smirked, Jaime noting just how intimidating the facial expression made her appear.

"I swore to be yours. I don't remember anything about me swearing to protect you. However, you swore to protect me, did you not? The only one breaking vows here is you, darling."

Using Jaime's slight hesitation at the mention of their vows, Y/N lunged and attempted to disarm him. Jaime blocked her quickly, eyes hard as he began lunging.

Now on the defense, Y/N blocked three blows before yet again moving to disarm Jaime.

Still finding ways to shock her husband, Y/N's expression gave nothing away as they fought. Jaime was pushing his sword down hard onto Y/N's, the steel clashing right in front of her face.

"Jaime, enough! This is ridiculous!"

Y/N pushed up with surprising strength and Jaime staggered back.

Jaime stabbed at Y/N again, his wife stepping back and blocking. "You're right, my love. It's ridiculous that I never knew my wife could fight this well."

As the pair fought, Brienne stood back, worried about the attention that the fight would draw to them and terrified that the pair would hurt each other. As the fight progressed, the couple grew more and more intense, swinging harder and aiming to injure.

Stepping back to breathe, Jaime and Y/N stood poised in defence should the other one attack.

"You're graceful, Y/N. I'll give you that."

Y/N's eyes narrowed.

"You'll give your life soon if you don't stop acting like a fool, father of my child or not."

Jaime lunged at her, angry that she would threaten him with their babe, hearing a hiss of pain before he was forced back with a kick to the stomach.

Y/N was breathing heavily and Jaime's heart dropped painfully when he noticed a shallow cut on her collar bone. He had hurt her. Another vow broken because of his pride.

"You're a fool."

Before Jaime could respond to his wife's harsh whisper or even think, Y/N had stepped forward and kicked his legs out from under him, using his distraction to her advantage.

Jaime landed on his back, the breath stolen from his lungs as he made impact with the ground. Y/N caught his sword before it fell and tossed it over the bridge, her other hand holding the tip of her blade to Jaime's throat. Her grey eyes were ablaze and Jaime knew that he had only experienced true, unadulterated fear of this nature one other time, ten-and-seven years ago when he murdered the Mad King.

"Do you concede?"

Before Jaime could even attempt to force words out of his throat, slow clapping came from behind Brienne, and the two women turned quickly. Jaime's eyes remained on his wife. Sword in hand, hair mussed, the sun casting a glow over her lithe form. Had she always looked like such a goddess? Jaime was so enthralled with Y/N that he didn't hear the man address him.

"Well, looks like your woman has gotten the best of ya."

Y/N looked to the flayed man of House Bolton flying on their banners and tensed. She remained composed, years of lessons coming back to her as she held herself as a lady should. At least, as regal as one could look while holding a sword to their husband's throat.

"Yes, well, passion and anger make for weak swordplay." She didn't lower her sword and Brienne felt defenseless without her own weapon.

The man at the head smirked, appraising Y/N, eyes raking over her body. Jaime's jaw ticked angrily.

"What's your name, love?"

Y/N, quick and calm as a Stark should always be, responded smoothly.

"Alessandra Snow. I was a handmaiden at the Stark camp."

The man laughed heartily, his men laughing with him. "Don't take me for a fool, Lady Y/N. I'd recognize The Flower of House Stark anywhere. Little Lyanna. Your brother's been lookin' for ya."

Y/N ground her teeth at the nickname, not bothering to cover for her lie or even apologize. Her gaze remained level with his until his eyes shifted.

Tilting his head to look at the man behind her, the man’s smirk grew. "And that makes you Jaime Lannister. Just the man we need."

Jaime stood, stepping in front of Y/N. She didn't continue to point her sword at him.

"Let us be. My father will give you whatever you want."

Y/N rolled her eyes, looking to Brienne to find a similar, painfully annoyed expression on the knight's face. Her jaw clenched as she looked to Jaime, knowing that he was completely serious. Almost four-and-ten and still calling on his father's money to get him out of tight situations.

The Bolton man scoffed, "Enough for a new head? If the King in the North hears that I had the Kingslayer and his sister and then let them go, he'd cut it right off."

Y/N's eyes hardened and she raised her sword, but she didn't remain on the defensive for long as they were all seized. Jaime had grabbed her wrist, stopping her from fighting, his eyes focused on her stomach. Y/N's eyes were still ablaze with fury when she looked at her husband, on her knees in front of the Bolton bannermen.

"I'd rather he takes yours."

#game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister imagine #jaime lannister #imagine #desi writes #vows

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wendynerdwrites · 7 years ago

Text

The Queen’s Favorite

A fic that I’ve gotten requests for, including from @jandsstark and @what-would-ww-do! The theme being: post season 8, Jon realizes he doesn’t deserve Sansa.

Oh, and fan cast Charlie Cox as Ser Patrek (not Stardust Charlie Cox, Daredevil Charlie Cox. But, you know, in a doublet... So... if Netflix did an adaptation of Marvel 1602?).

Jon:

Perhaps he should expect the way his former brother turns expectantly towards him, blue eyes mild. Jon barely recognizes the sweet, adventurous boy he knew in this stoic youth.

Bran used to smile easily and purely. But now, while the corners of his lips may turn upwards, there’s something missing. This person who calls himself Bran and the three-eyed raven does not feel joy. Or anything, really.

“Hello, Jon,” Bran says in that frustratingly mild tone, “What may I help you with? If it’s about your parents, I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I can.”

Jon purses his lips. This isn’t about that at all. But the mention of it summons some embarrassment. In perspective, his purpose here now is stupid, superfluous, shallow. He’s not even sure why he’s asking.

Sansa, on a personal level, is no longer his responsibility. He relinquished his right to interfere with her life when he swore himself to Daenerys. It’s a decision he made out of fear and panic, a desperation to keep the dragon queen from withdrawing support from their cause. But it proved futile. Daenerys is still the North’s ally for now, but Jon has not managed to give her what she wants. Between the Ice Dragon and Daenerys’s refusal to keep her remaining dragons at least ten miles from every densely populated landmark, the North made its decision. Their former king could call Daenerys his queen if they wished, but they shall not.

Thus, Sansa is crowned, and not just to rule the North. The Vale enthusiastically joined the call in swearing themselves. And it didn’t end there. As it turned out, Sansa sent a couple thousand men to take back the Trident as well in order to restore her uncle to Riverrun, secure the lordless Harrenhal (left without one upon Littlefinger’s execution), swell their numbers, and increase the buffer zone between the North and the Lannisters.

A delegation, led by Lord Jason Mallister’s heir, declared for Hoster Tully’s granddaughter. Jon’s cousin, his former half-sister Sansa, is no longer mere lady of Winterfell. She is Her Grace Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the Three Realms of the North, the Vale, and the Trident.

When Daenerys threatened to burn the castle alive for the “treason”, one of the castle tower ballistas, fired at Rhaegal and clipped. his wing. The response suddenly became more diplomatic, with both young queens coming together to end the threat of the Dead.

The Stark forces and influences have been swollen by the enthusiastic support of the Riverland army. Sansa ended up bringing a Riverlord’s delegation to decide who they preferred.

As it turned out, the Trident has as much interest in dragonfire as the rest. Daenerys watches, aghast as Patrek Mallister, heir to Seaguard, came before the whole court to announce that it was Stark forces that freed him from the Frey camp. Him and numerous other heirs owe their freedom to the Queen in the North. Many, many we quite insistent on this, from Lord Blackwood to Lord Piper. But the charismatic head of the delegation seemed most passionate about the issue.

Amidst throngs of cheering people, Daenerys watched, lemons in her mouth, as over half the continent swore themselves to their new queen. The girl who had been a fugitive just a year ago and since managed to restore her home and bring order to the North and protect and feed people during Ice dragon attacks. A true queen.

Daenerys could not do much to stop it, either, except threaten fire and death upon countless innocents for simply not choosing her. It was then that Jon chose to reveal his identity to her and threaten her out of that idea. It was a positive move on his part all around. He was especially sure of that when he was thrown out of her chambers. But hours later, she was reluctantly swearing an oath of friendship with the new Queen of three realms.

It was perhaps stupid of Jon to think that at this point, he might have a chance. After months and months of self-loathing over his feelings for his “sister”, he’s learned that isn’t the case while stuck in a liaison with his aunt. Perfection. But after Daenerys rejected him, this was finally his opportunity.

He’d have to take his time, of course. The two of them were raised as siblings. She’d need time to get used to the idea. And he’d give her as much of that time as he could, considering.

So, the evening after Daenerys swore her vow---- Sansa looked beautiful, her head held high and her eyes shining, triumphant, Jon snuck up to her door with a bottle of Arbor Gold. When she comes to the door, she looks shocked and keeps it partially closed.

Jon holds up the bottle. “I thought we might celebrate, Your Grace.”

“Oh!” She glances behind her briefly, then looks back. “That’s very sweet of you, Jon, it is, but I’m not feeling particularly well right now. Perhaps another night?”

He frowns and reaches up to feel her brow, “You don’t feel feverish.”

“It’s… a headache. It’s nothing. Nothing that a bit of rest can’t cure, I’m sure.”

There’s a thump in the background. The hair on the back of Jon’s neck stands on end and, ignoring her protests, he pushes past her.

To find a man in her chambers crouching over a fallen bronze pitcher. Jon immediately unsheathes Longclaw, ready to skewer the intruder.

The man stands and holds up his hands. It’s then that Jon notices that he’s not wearing his boots and that his upper body is clothed solely by a purple tunic.

Jon recognizes him now: average height, reddish-brown hair and beard, brown eyes, muscular build, perfect jawline, and an easy smile. That easy smile appears, albeit sheepishly as he rises. Jon’s blood burns when he sees that bush. He’d like to slice that look right off his face.

“I am a guest in this house, My Lord,” Ser Patrek Mallister reminds him with an arched brow.

“Put that away, Jon, honestly!” Sansa snaps, annoyed. Jon looks at her, utterly aghast. Mallister is easily ten years her senior.

He does sheathe his blade, but quickly asks, “Where is your chaperone?”

Sansa scoffs. “Chaperone? Jon, honestly, I’m a widow and, in case you missed it, Queen, now. I am not some blushing maid who requires a beady-eyed Septa to look over my shoulder.”

Jon scowls. She’s not even denying what this is? But, for the purposes of confirmation, he asks, “What are you doing with him?”

“None of your business, Jon. Now, thank you for the wine, but this is none of your concern. Please leave!”

“I’m not going to let you---”

She practically pushed him out, breaking his heart in the process.

First place he goes, of course, are Bran’s rooms. But now that he’s here, he’s second-guessing himself. How does he ask this without betraying himself?

Jon hesitates and goes, “I’m worried about our sister. Her and Mallister---”

“---Are happy right now,” Bran says significantly, “There is no cause for alarm.”

Jon steps forward, “Can you at least just look? Make sure she’s not---”

“Jon, doing you honestly think Sansa, after everything she’s been through, would open herself up to a man without checking with me first? I’ve looked into his past, present, and future. He used to drink and whore too much up until he was taken prisoner during the Red Wedding. All things he told Sansa about when he began pursuing her. Now he spends less time carousing and more time serving his father’s people and lands. He’s a fine man. He’s not lied to or hurt her, or done anything dishonorable.”

This angers Jon far more than if Bran told him that Mallister was Aegon the Unworthy born again. But he has to hold back his frustration, or betray himself. He marches out of Bran’s rooms to his own and paces furiously.

What did you expect? For her to remain alone forever? She’s young and beautiful and you’ve been gone for nearly a year! Perhaps if you’d done as Sansa suggested and sent an emissary to Dragonstone we wouldn’t be in this mess!

I was trying to get away from her at the time, I thought she was my sister!

You’d have found out the truth much sooner had you been less of a coward. She’s an adult woman, more than capable of taking care of herself. She took care of an entire country while you were off nearly getting yourself killed beyond the Wall. This is her decision. You must respect it.

Maybe he must, but he can’t simply accept it.

You were her brother and you almost made her kneel to a foreign invader after taking a crown that should have been hers and throwing it away on a woman who brought an Ice Dragon to Westeros because of a useless pact Sansa warned you not to pursue. Did you think she would want to throw herself into your arms? Why? Because of that battle she won for you? That you nearly ruined because you fell into a trap she warned you about? Or because you’ve embraced her a few times?

They were excellent embraces. At least, he thought so.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

By his own admission, Sansa wouldn’t have liked Patrek if she’d met him a few years prior, when he was squandering his time drinking and whoring and actually hoping for a war to achieve some “glory”, which, Patrek also admits, he wouldn’t have been able to define.

“Two years in a Frey dungeon has an effect on a person,” he tells her wearily, pulling her into his lap, “I realized that I was no hero, no great personage. That I was stuck in a cell, waiting for someone to rescue me, a pawn in everything, boosted by nothing I’d created myself, just a name.”

Sansa rests a hand upon Patrek’s cheek, feeling the contrast of clear skin and stubble. It’s hard to imagine him as a lout or a prisoner, with such a kind, honest face. Faces can be deceptive, though. Her own courtier’s smile proves that.

Patrek isn’t young. Or, at least, he’s not as young as Sansa. He is a good friend of her Uncle Edmure, though he’s well younger than him. He’s one-and-thirty. But there’s something sweet and incurably boyish about his expression that only ever makes him looks mischievous at worst. He has a trickster’s smile sometimes, but unlike Petyr’s, there is no cruelty to it. Sansa has no doubt that Patrek has had his years of being thoughtless, petty, irresponsible, and callous, but even at his worst, she has a hard time imagining any true malice behind it. People who are deliberately malicious rarely have this level of self-awareness without practically flagellating themselves over it.

Patrek accepts what he was, and tries to be better now with a stalwart and somehow hopeful practicality. He’s a child of summer, perhaps, but he is ready to meet the winter. He knows how awful he was to break some milkmaid’s heart in his youth, but he’s insightful enough to know that there are more pressing matters than his own guilt and that everyone, including that milkmaid, is better off if he puts his mind to contributing as much as he can to the danger facing them now.

“We were all idiots when we were young,” she tells him, “I thought I was a lady from a song. I expected to be loved, and thought pretty, refined people were good.”

His face falls a bit. “The difference, though, Love, is that when you mention your youthful stupidity, you’re referring to your thirteenth year. When I refer to mine, I refer to my thirteenth year up until well into my twenty-seventh. I wasn’t even half-finished creating regrets when I was your age. I was stumbling out of barns with my hose about my knees. You are the unanimously chosen queen of three realms whose governance has been admired and praised by experienced and accomplished lords and ladies old enough to be your grandparents.”

Sansa blushes. When Patrek says things like this, it has an effect almost unlike anything she’s ever known. The closest anyone has gotten to making her feel truly proud, recognized, and flattered is when Jon quietly informed her after her ascension that she deserved it. Others have praised her, of course. Though Sansa has noticed that she’s gotten far less praise for feeding the populace and clearing the roads than her deposed cousin got for his supposed military victory (that was actually hers). But that is the way of things: war is glorified, feats of martial prowess are the ideal, the things that get preserved by songs and stories. No one ever writes a ditty about resource allocation, even if said resource allocation is what enables those armies to fight in the first place. No one wanted to sing of edicts and budgets. Battles were more lyrical.

When she is praised for her unglamorous contributions, she usually looks for a motive behind it. Cynicism is not a habit easily broken, so when one of her courtiers move to praise her wisdom, she either wonders what they want from her, or bitterly notes the surprise in their voice, as if it is inconceivable, even after months and months of her deftly ruling this disaster-prone country, that a young woman can handle such responsibility. Even when people like Lord Royce, who she likes and trusts, tells her she’s made a wise decision, there’s an underlying message of, “What? How? You’re supposed to be stupid and dependent!”

Logically, she knows she should be suspicious of Patrek. By his own admission, he has a history of deceiving and flattering women. Part of her does suspect him, wondering what will happen the morning after she’s finally let him into her bed. She searches his face for a lie constantly. She even asked Bran to investigate him.

The worst her brother could come up with is, “The only reason he doesn’t have a gaggle of bastards is because his father was fastidious about delivering Moon Tea to his conquests’ doorsteps.”

She asked Arya to tail him for a day. “He went to the Wintertown tavern with some of his men, had a pint or two, but didn’t so much as pull one of the wenches into his lap.”

Abandoned loutishness aside, there could still be ulterior motives to Patrek’s pursuit. He may be saving his focus for the ultimate conquest --- a queen, for example.

She is queen, and she cannot forget that. She has no shortage of suitors, really. Many of whom undoubtedly seek to rule the Three Realms via marriage to her. Patrek is the heir to his own lands, to Seagard. He will be one of the most powerful lords of the Trident some day, and should logically be seeking a wife from a noble house who can be his lady. But it’s possible he expects that Sansa will defer to him and cede control of her domains to her Lord Husband should they marry, and that House Stark shall become House Mallister.

Sansa’s afraid to ask. If that’s true, it will be a bitter disappointment. If it isn’t, he might be offended that she’d suspect such a thing, or feel repelled that she’s thinking of marriage at all.

So her policy thus far has been to just try to enjoy him while she can, and try not to fuss too much. With the war, it’s not as if there’s much pressure on her to marry immediately. Especially since she isn’t going to be fighting on the front lines. She has yet to share her bed with Patrek, who has shown nothing but patience, and if she does, she has a supply of Moon Tea to prevent any inconvenient pregnancies. As long as she is careful, stays devoted to her duty, and doesn’t let her heart get in the way of her head, she should be fine.

“True enough,” she agrees, pleased, “Not many would admit that, though.”

She’s promised herself that the moment Patrek asks for a favor, she shall end things. She’s even told Arya as much. “If I should tell you of some underhanded request, or begin giving him undeserved perks, you are to stop me.”

If Patrek is here for a crown, she will let him announce it, and end things there. It’s not about power, but about duty. She was trusted by her people to take on the responsibility of leading them, to protect their rights, their independence,and protect their faith in her, the monarch they chose. She cannot hand that honor off to some power-hungry potential lover. She is not Jon.

Sansa has to marry, of course. One of her duties is providing an heir. But her husband shall have to take the Stark name, play the role of consort, and accept her regency. Her vassals shouted “Queen in the North”, not “Queen-until-she-finds-a-king-to-marry in the North.”

She’s even debated giving her husband the courtesy title of “King.” “King” in practically every legal and social context is synonymous with “regnant.” It doesn’t have the flexibility of the “queen” title. If she names whomever she marries “King”, it might create some legal loopholes that threaten her status and authority. After all the North has suffered, stability is key to its survival. Part of that stability is having an unquestioned, strong, solid monarch. That was half the reason Jon bending the knee was so unacceptable. If Sansa takes a king, she will no longer be unquestioned.

The issue is that there’s no precedent for this sort of thing. At least, not one on the books.

But even if she marries someone content to treat king as purely a courtesy title, that doesn’t mean others can’t twist it, or that their families will see it that way. And even those suitors who wouldn’t usurp her authority may still want to be called “king”, regardless.

She doesn’t know. When she looks into Patrek’s warm brown eyes, though, she doesn’t see a man searching for a crown.

“I’ve noticed, with all due respect, that the men of this realm aren’t fond of using many words, whether it’s to admit a personal failing or otherwise,” remarks Patrek, “They’re very loud, but not very verbose.”

Perhaps it’s stupid of her, carrying on like this with a man at this time, but… Everything is so hard and confusing and terrifying. And so very, very lonely. Nearly every waking minute is spent going over ledgers, receiving petitions, signing documents, conducting council meetings, making sure that roads are cleared, refugees are housed, troops are deployed, enemies are watched, ballistas are maintained, supplies are sent and received, battles are planned. All while hoping that the Dragon Queen will change her mind all of a sudden about accepting the North’s independence and burn them all. It’s all on her. Everyone is depending on her.

It’s not as if she has calm periods, either. That her moments come during attacks and battles. No, Sansa feels like she’s constantly engaged in battle. On the surface, people might scoff at this, claiming there are no enemies charging towards her to kill her. But starvation, disease, subterfuge, and revolt are every bit as deadly and far, far more subtle. They’re invisible enemies. She has to fight them off, while also providing the actual armies the means to fight at all. It doesn’t matter how great your numbers are or how skilled your commander is, if your soldiers are too weak to move from hunger, illness, or untreated injury, or don’t have weapons or armor to defend themselves, or can’t walk because a lack of adequate footwear have rendered their feet bloody and broken, defeat is inevitable. In addition to providing the supplies, she must keep the roads clear enough to deliver them, make sure they are handled by trustworthy and qualified people, keep track of the needs and positions of their forces across vast distances, and coordinate defenses back home. She has to do all this while ensuring that there are no traitors in her court trying to sabotage or murder her, while keeping her vassals happy so that they continue to provide their vital support. And she must get all of this done while observing, respecting, and adhering to the codes that protect her peoples’ rights. And making sure her home is always ready to defend itself from a dragon attack, Ice or otherwise.

Meanwhile, Cersei Lannister is gathering up an army to finish off the weakened victor of the War for the Dawn. Which, of course, is just one part of the vast issue that is planning for the future after the war and the winter, which Sansa also needs to do if her country is going to recover from everything, stay united once the common enemy is gone, and thrive.

And she just… She wants something. Something in her life right now that grants her some relief, some joy. Something that briefly lets her forget that the world is on her shoulders. Something that satisfies some manner of yearning within her.

This is winter, there are no lemons growing anymore.

Furs can only do so much to keep her warm. Sansa leans against Patrek’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and sighs. “Some people talk at length and end up saying nothing at all.”

“Nothing of substance anyway.”

It’s probably stupid, wrong, and selfish for her to still, on some level, want a handsome, charming man to kiss and comfort and praise her. But she has to be wise, right, and selfless all the time. She barely even feels like a person anymore. More like the pedestal for a crown.

Sansa doesn’t resent or hate her power… far from it. As queen, she is more secure than she’s ever been. She doesn’t have to answer to any lord, no one can force her to do anything she doesn’t wish to do. Instead, she can order others to do things like donate grain or take in smallfolk. She’s restored House Stark and their home and there’s less risk of having it taken from her than ever before. And, while her efforts are less likely to be recognized than those of generals and commanders, it makes them no less rewarding. Every day she watches people stand in line for food, people who would be starving if not for her organization and leadership, having healthy rations of bread, turnips, meat, and stringed beans placed in the hands instead of trying to eat leather and sawdust. People who are living in the camps she set up, who would have been killed by Ice Dragon attacks had she not used Bran’s abilities to warn her and evacuated areas beforehand. When she watches men march off to battle, she has the comfort that, at the very least, they have adequate armor and weapons because she made sure of it. That there are lords and ladies who are feeding and housing smallfolk who would have left them in the cold had Sansa not interceded.

Maybe there will never be songs of this, and maybe Lord Royce and the others still seem surprised by her competence, but Sansa knows she isn’t unnoticed. She’s hailed and followed whenever she walks through the camps or rides through town. People look at her not just with the deference of her rank, but with hope and love. Many are not afraid to personally approach her in the streets about some issue or another. She’s received many tearful thanks from mothers and fathers whose children have had their first full meal in many moons. Or whose daughter was the target of one of Ramsay’s “hunts.” A crown of the most precious metals and gems couldn’t make her feel as good.

Sansa watches the flames dance within the hearth.

It even makes her fear the Dragon Queen less. Daenerys sees how Sansa is regarded. She notices. The woman has come to Westeros promising to “break the wheel” of tyranny by the powerful families (except her own, of course), has built her reputation on being the “chosen” queen. The “Breaker of Chains”. A benevolent, yet powerful liberator. Burning a castle filled with innocent men, women, and children in it because they didn’t want to kneel to her is the antithesis of that. She’s already threatened to withhold support and let the White Walkers destroy the North if Jon didn’t bend the knee. She’s already burnt Randyll Tarly and his young son, Dickon, alive, for denying her. She lost the Martells, the Greyjoys, and the Tyrells. The status of the Reach and the Dorne are shaky, to say the least. She’s brought Dothraki, famous for their brutality, for raping and pillaging innocents, to these shores. And one of her dragons became the mount of the Night’s King in an effort to secure a futile alliance with Cersei Lannister. Then she ignored the request of the North (the place that has suffered all the Ice Dragon attacks thus far) to keep her own dragons at least ten miles from highly populated areas.

Daenerys was told by Jon that even if he bent the knee, his people would not accept a Southern leader. She refused to believe it, insisting they would if their king said so. Then, when they arrived in the North and Jon announced it, the people unanimously rejected her and crowned Sansa instead. Not out of fear, not because they were deceived. This was their choice, based on merit.

Given her current track record in Westeros, Daenerys is already having trouble convincing the people that she’s any different from Cersei. The Reach reacted with horror to Dickon Tarly’s death in particular, and currently maintain steadfast neutrality. As for Dorne, it already had divisions since Ellaria Sand’s takeover was based on nothing more than kinslaying, and most of the lords there, while harboring no love for the Tarly’s, are similarly disturbed by the deaths, and are suspicious of any queen who would ally with someone who based their power on murdering children and relatives.

The Starks have pledged their friendship, and Sansa has even promised to deploy her remaining forces after the war to help Daenerys defeat Cersei and take the Iron Throne, even if the North, Vale, and Riverlands were no longer part of her domains. Daenerys’s long-lost Stark nephew has promised not to challenge her for the throne despite a superior claim. The Starks are well-known to be honorable, good, and to have suffered horribly, and to be the first a sole responders to the threat the continent faces. Winterfell is not only home to a household of decent people, but is filled with and surrounded by innocent refugees. Displaced, defenseless men, women, and children. And it hosts many respectable and important lords and ladies. All of whom adore, trust, and respect their young queen, the long-suffering, dutiful Sansa Stark, who has known so much cruelty and tragedy and has emerged from it wise and kind.

If Daenerys destroys Winterfell, she destroy any chance of being anything more than a “Mad Queen.” She destroys herself.

It wouldn’t be Aegon the Conqueror burning Harren the Black alive within Harrenhal. That’s already controversial, but at the very least, Harren was a known monster, a vicious, brutal warlord who tortured, enslaved, and killed countless innocents to create his monster of a castle. Winterfell is a centuries-old bastion of defense and leadership in the North, the most famous solace against the harshest winds of winter, ruled by the oldest and most honorable and arguably respected House in Westeros. And it is filled not with raping pirates but refugees.

By burning Winterfell, the Mother of Dragons will have committed an unprecedented, unforgivable, and vicious war crime out of pettiness. She’ll be a mass-murderer, liar, hypocrite, and lunatic. She’ll have not only slaughtered countless innocents, but destroyed her only remaining ally in Westeros and the North’s primary defenses, leaving her own armies vulnerable. The Night’s King has already taken one of her dragons, and a second was wounded by a ballista. Both incidents happened because of Daenerys’s own stupidity. She lost a dragon and dragged a wight to King’s Landing to have a tea party with Cersei Lannister, but burned the last of honorable Ned Stark’s children and all their people alive. Over a title. Not the Iron Throne, which Cersei Lannister sits upon, but one that the people of the North, Trident, and Riverlands begged their leader to take.

She’ll have destroyed the oldest House of Westeros, and numerous important lords and ladies as well, with absolutely no respect to their status, their families, their names, their people. That does not bode well for ANY noble family. None of them will be willing to accept Daenerys. Between Viserion’s death and Rhaegal being wounded, her dragons are not invincible. And with Winterfell gone, Daenerys will have left herself right in the open path of the army of the Dead. Even if she does manage to win that, her armies will be severely depleted, and will have Cersei and the Golden Company waiting for them. And they will be without a shred of support from anyone in Westeros.

Such a thing is not just a matter of soldiers, either. There are also issues of transportation and accommodation, not to mention supplies. Between the Red Keep and Daenerys’s current location is the entire North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Daenerys’s ability to cross rivers, stay at castles, set camp in fields will all have to be attained under threat of Dragonfire. She’ll be a pillager in every sense of the word. And if the citizens (possibly headed by the noble families whose parents and siblings died when Daenerys burned Winterfell) decide to organize a resistance, she’s even worse off. Some kingdoms may even decide that Cersei is preferable, since Cersei has no dragons. She also immolated many innocent people, including a Great House, but she had to lure them all into one building to do it. Far less dangerous. And even she was still forced to do things like repay her debts to the Iron Bank and betroth herself to a pirate. She’d be much easier to control and stand against.

Overseas powers might also get involved. The Iron Bank was already backing Cersei over the collapse of the slave trade in Dragon’s Bay. But the destruction of Winterfell might make several other kingdoms and cities nervous about the rising power of this mad, dragon-riding conqueror. It’s not as if her conquests in Essos were exactly peaceful. Even those governments with no interest in the slave trade might fear that the Mad King’s Daughter will decide to outdo her forebears and expand her empire beyond Westeros, and reign fire down upon them. After all, if she was willing to murder the famously benevolent Starks for being independent, what would stop her from burning Pentos? Braavos? Yi-Ti? The Summer Isles?

Burning Winterfell would make enemies of everyone, diminish her defenses against an army that has already claimed one of her dragons, and paint her forever as a bloodthirsty lunatic. No one would trust her, want her, respect her. Just fear and revile her.

Daenerys, despite her prior actions, likes to think herself a force for good, wants to believe everything she says of herself, despite her “Submit or burn” policy. On some level, she knows this. So she’s yet to burn them all alive. If it’s out of basic decency or self-preservation, Sansa cannot be sure. But she feels more secure as a queen of the people than one of ashes, fire, or blood.

Still, people are fickle, she knows this. And that doesn’t make her life anything less of a constant struggle. And she just… she just…

She feels a protrusion rising from between Patrek’s legs, pushing into her thigh, and her lip curls.

Patrek doesn’t pretend to be a model of virtue, or a perfect repentant. He doesn’t act like his improved character is a burden, or something deserving of praise. And Sansa believes that even if he’s not in love with her, even if motives aren’t pure altruism, that he does possess some genuine affection for her, and that it isn't just about her looks. They have long conversations well into the night, and when he responds to her, he always has an engaged and insightful comment or query, and he always recalls prior conversations, so she knows he’s not merely pretending to listen.

Sometimes, he does get distracted, but he always admits it. Then there are other times, when they’re sitting by the fire and it’s gotten truly late, and he drifts off to sleep, his fingers in her hair, halted where he’s been stroking it.

There are also his impressions of the members of the court, wicked, accurate, and hilarious. Sometimes she laughs so hard she can’t breathe. And it just feels so, so good to laugh, especially at something irreverent, inconsequential, and immature. Most of her laughter over the past several years has come from observations and sarcastic remarks so morbid that she has to laugh to keep from crying. So something like this is a wonderful respite.

And he is very handsome. And he truly looks like a man, not a boy. There’s definitely a boyishness in his looks, but it’s notable because he is so clearly an adult male. It’s not prettiness, like with Loras or Joffrey, though Patrek is gorgeous. But it’s the sort of beauty that can only be called handsomeness, not prettiness. And it’s not as if he’s some dirty, burly creature, either. He dresses very well. He is not shy about the fact that he prefers wine to ale. His manners are Southern and genteel. He doesn’t spend every other minute challenging other men to wrestling matches, arm wrestling, or drinking contests.

“What do I have to prove?” He’s said. “I survived nearly four years in a Frey dungeon while this lot were retreating to their castles. You rode off to war while they sat huddled by their hearths. I don’t need to prove myself to men who were outmatched in courage by a nineteen-year-old fugitive and a ten-year-old orphan.”

Sansa adjusts her position slightly, turning to look into her paramour’s eyes. They’re eyes that have seen terrible things, that have watched as their body, mind, and soul have endured cruelties. Patrek doesn’t go into much detail about his captivity. Sansa doesn’t mind, she doesn’t go into much detail about hers. Maybe someday, they will.

But these eyes still manage to be so warm. They’re the brown of burnt caramel. Fitting for him. Burnt, yes, but still full of sweetness and somehow richer for it. Sansa wonders if he sees any warmth in her own eyes, or if they’re just icy cold to him.

She only wishes he had a bit more affection for the North and its people. But Sansa consistently gets the impression from him that he considers her vassals to be a bunch of pompous, ignorant, tasteless louts and her to be too good for them. There is still a touch of snobbery to Patrek. And even when she tries to explain reasons her lords had for staying out of the war against Ramsay, his response is usually just to stroke her hair and declare her a far more understanding person than himself. He judges himself, yes, and he’s happy to judge others.

“So,” he says, wetting his lips, “Will I have to Duel your brother tomorrow?”

“You’d have to get my permission to draw steel towards one another under my roof, and I shall not grant it.”

This does give her pause, though. She may not allow a duel, but there was nothing stopping Jon from requesting one. It is the sort of thing he might do, too. And if he does, people will wonder why, rumors will arise, and…

She neither wants or needs gossip. Sansa treasures what privacy she has, and she doesn’t have much.

“That being said…” she slips off of his lap, “Perhaps I should speak to him.”

“Now?”

“Well, if I wait until tomorrow, it could be too late. I don’t want to give him too much time to fly off the handle.”

Patrek clears his threat and folds his hands. “Are you sure that visiting him now would be prudent. He might have a… guest.”

Sansa flinches. He means the Dragon Queen, and he is right. Everyone knows about them. Some of her angrier vassals believe Jon betrayed the North and bent the knee so Daenerys would marry him and make him King of Westeros. Sansa doesn’t believe that part, but she also isn’t stupid. They do share a bed. And for some reason, every mention or reference to this fact always hits her like the blow of a lance.

She wanders over to her desk and pulls out some parchment. “I’ll go to his room and if it sounds like he is… entertaining… I will just pin this note to Ghost’s collar.”

Patrek rises from the sofa and goes to open the hall door. Ghost pads in casually, tail wagging, moving to greet Sansa. Her lover has been here enough times to know that the direwolf guards Sansa’s door faithfully all through the night, every night. Another thing which assures Sansa about Patrek is that the beast has yet to show any hostility towards him. Ghost always snarled at Petyr.

Sansa finishes scrawling her note.p, but doesn’t pin it. Folds the paper in her hands, she says bashfully, “I think I should at least try to speak to him about it in person, first. I mean, if it were your sister, wouldn’t you---?”

“You’re not his sister,” Patrek reminds her. And she nods.

“But he is still family. He’s still a wolf, and a pack sticks together if they wish to survive.”

Patrek purses his lips and says nothing. Sansa’s shoulders sag.

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s fair that you’re so forthcoming with him and I’ve yet to see him return the favor.”

“I wasn’t always so open with him,” Sansa answers, thinking of the Knights of the Vale, “And I regretted it.”

“I think he’s entitled to a fair number more regrets than you at this point.”

Sansa sighs and walks to him. She kisses his cheek. “I won’t be long.”

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

Eventually, his feet ached too much from pacing. Now he is slumped by the chair, staring at the fire, downing ale, and stewing.

He’s so alone.

Even as a bastard, he’s always been one of the court, a man of the North. Now, though? He’s a guest in his own home. He’s sworn himself to Daenerys, he’s her subject, of her court and kingdom. He’s not even Ned Stark’s son. He’s a Targaryen.

He and Daenerys haven’t formally said it yet, but they’re done. They haven’t shared a bed since Bran revealed everything. He’s been caught up in the horror that he’s bedded his aunt.

With Daenerys, he suspects, the horror is more at this greater claim to the Iron Throne than their blood relation. She was raised as a Targaryen, after all. Such things are typical for them. Him as her nephew was one thing, but as her rival? Not after all the work she’s done.

Perhaps she also sensed his lack of interest. That was another possibility.

Jon suspects, though it has not been confirmed, that there’s some sort of unspoken agreement between Daenerys and Sansa that Jon will live here should they survive the war in order to keep him and his claim out of the way. Jon doesn’t mind too much; he doesn’t want the throne and he loves Winterfell. But he doesn’t like being arranged for, and he doesn’t like the idea of living his life here as Daenerys’s nephew, not a true member of Sansa’s court.

What is left of his identity? His name, his birthplace, his father, his legitimacy, his title, his position… All changed. Jon isn’t even sure what his official title, style, and name are even more. Have all the legal relevant legal documents had ‘Jon Snow’ scratched out, with ‘Aegon Targaryen’ written in smaller letters above? Daenerys named him Warden of the North, but he’s pretty sure that is null with Sansa’s ascension. He’s Rhaegar’s trueborn son, so is he a prince now? Or just ‘Lord’? The servants address him as “My Lord”, but that’s more a formality.

Twenty-three years of age and he still has no idea who he is, what he’s doing, or what he should do.

Perhaps he should tell Sansa how he feels. She can send that Mallister brat packing. They could formalize their alliance with Daenerys through marriage and he could be a Stark again as her consort.

Maybe he should just ask to be sent out as soon as possible. Given a command and just get away. He’s good at fighting, even if he doesn’t enjoy it.

Jon nearly falls out of his seat when there’s a knock on the door. At this hour. His stomach lurches when he considers Daenerys. Oh, gods, please no.

Reluctantly, he goes to the door. His heart rises at the sight of Sansa. Oh, gods, yes.

Perhaps having him see her with Mallister made her realize something. Maybe she’s here to apologize and confess her true feelings. Maybe he’s had more than just a couple of cups of ale.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “I need to speak to you about what you came upon this evening. I don’t want you to act like a fool and make a fuss.”

Jon stares at her blankly. Yes, more than two cups. He feels a bit indignant. “You run over to my chambers in the middle of the night and you’re worried I’ll make a fuss?”

Sansa does blush, but she also persists. “Yes. I don’t want you… punching him at the breakfast table or challenging him to a duel for my honor or something. People will talk, and I can’t afford that. I know how you get.”

“Chivalrous?” He asks, half-teasing, half-hopeful.

“Over-protective.”

“I think I’m just the right level of protective, actually.” Without thinking, Jon raises his hand and clutches her cheek gently, “Why shouldn’t I want to protect you?”

“You’re free to want whatever you wish, Jon. Just don’t act on it. I’m a grown woman, and I am more than capable of taking care of myself now that I have the means.” She pulls his hand away.

He likes it when she gets annoyed. And her boldness is thrilling. He smiles. “Come in and have a drink with me, let’s discuss this.”

Sansa hesitates, but enters. “I don’t have time for a drink, but I prefer to speak behind closed doors,” she says, standing to face him, her arms crossed.

Jon sighs, his thoughts suddenly turning melancholy. “...It isn’t hard?”

“What isn’t hard?” She asks wearily.

Jon frowns. “After what happened to you. After what Ramsay did. I’d think after that, you’d need years and years before you could share a man’s bed again.”

Sansa’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens. “I… I… Not that it’s any of your business, but Patrek and I haven’t coupled.”

A wave of relief washes over Jon. “Really?!”

“Really. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“Then why was he barefoot and down to his tunic?”

“We were in private, and he was getting comfortable. Sometimes he sleeps on my sofa, so he likes to shed a few layers just in case. We talk through the night sometimes.”

“And you like him?” Why?!

“Yes. He’s very genuine.”

“You’re sure of that?”

She bristles. “I know the difference, Jon!”

“Of course. Pardon me. I just want to be sure. I worry.”

She holds her head high then. “Well, I believe that’s it then.”

“That’s not it!” He sputters, “It’s entirely unsuitable! You’re a queen! Do you want people to think your morals have fled?!”

“I have proven my generosity, work ethic, loyalty, and devotion to the extent that they have named me queen. I have done too much good for my people to brand me completely dissolute based on what occurs in my bedchamber. Besides, Patrek and I are discreet. All I ask is that you follow suit.”

“Why should I?!” He demands. “Why should I be discreet about you making yourself into some lordling’s whore?”

Her face goes white again, and Jon loathes himself. He tries to speak up, to take it back, but his voice gets caught in his throat.

Sansa’s voice is like acid. “Because if you didn’t, it would make you the most traitorous, insensitive, despicable shit I know. Goodnight.”

She moves toward the door, but Jon grabs her wrist. “Wait!”

Sansa scowls. “What?”

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.”

He says it out loud. It takes him several seconds to realize this. Sansa’s face goes slack and colorless. She knows what he means by that. There are several seconds of silence, where the world seems to stand still. Then the color returns to her face. And returns some more. And some more.

“Did you love me when you ignored my warnings about Ramsay and Cersei? When you suggested that I admired the woman who ruined my life? When you told me that even though I’d been raped and tortured within our home for months that you’d rather flee to somewhere warm than do anything about it? When you left me behind and didn’t write? When you accepted the crown instead of pointing out that it was I, not you, who won the Battle of the Bastards and was heir to the North? When you bedded Daenerys and offered her the country I risked my life for?”

It’s like a slap in the face. Jon releases her wrist and steps back. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Whenever I spoke to you, Jon, I felt like I was being ignored. You once outright mocked the idea of listening to me. Even though I’d been proven right before and ignoring me nearly got you killed. Even though I saved your life. The one time you seemed to consult me, you changed your opinion afterwards and announced it to the whole court without asking me. And you never once asked me anything else, either. Like what happened to me in King’s Landing. Why I kept Littlefinger near. I asked you plenty and you treated it as if I were undermining you. After years and years of being treated like a fool, a pawn, and useless, I got it from you as well. Even though we thought ourselves siblings at the time, that was your chance to prove the value of your ‘love.’ If you cannot appreciate my counsel, then you are unworthy of my heart.”

“I… I---”

“---And, you know, Jon, I’m not so sure that you do love me. I think that when you look at me, you don’t see me. You see all the things that were denied you. You see all the things you were told that a bastard like you wasn’t worthy of. I’m not a key, Jon. I’m not Key to the North, or to Winterfell, or to your legitimacy, or the key to proving all those nay-sayers wrong.”

It’s as if all his insides have disappeared. It hurts worse than Olly’s blade.

“Sansa, you have to---”

“---I don’t have to do anything you say, you’re not my king, and I don’t belong to you,” she snaps, “I belong to my subjects, and as per your choices, that doesn’t include you. I am Queen of the Three Realms, Regnant of over half of Westeros, Lady of Winterfell and Harrenhal! I don’t have to do anything that doesn’t involve keeping my people safe and fed. As long as I do that --- and, let me remind you, I am, very, very effectively --- I can do what I wish. I may bed Ser Patrek tonight. I may marry him tomorrow, or not. I may give him a child. A child I’ll declare a legitimate Stark and heir to my kingdom regardless of whether or not I wed. But I can’t do what I like with you. You belong to your aunt. The one you fucked. You’re her whore. And unlike me, that’s the only thing you can lay claim to anymore. Goodnight, My Lord.”

She slams the door behind her, leaving him speechless.

He crumbles to the floor once he’s too tired to stand anymore. He blacks out at some point, and is woken by another knock on his door. Joints in agony, Jon reluctantly rises and goes to open it…

...To find Patrek Mallister glaring at him.

He barely has time to react when the heir to Seagard has him by the collar and pushes him up against a wall.

“She told me everything, you Bastard Lizard-Fucker,” Mallister sneers, “I never thought you’d have the stones to tell her---”

“---You… You…” Jon chokes out.

“Me and everyone else at court,” Mallister says through clenched teeth, “You may not have inherited the Targaryen looks, but you sure as shit inherited their flair for subtlety. I’ve ignored it because I overestimated your sense of decency and thought you’d never say a word. But last night you proved me wrong and you called her a whore. Now, listen, I’m going to be around for as long as she wants me here, Snow, and you’re not going to get in the way, got it? And even if there’s a point where she’s not my lover, she will always be my queen and if you ever insult her again, I don’t care if I have to march all the way from Seagard. I’ll rip your tongue out.”

He releases him, backs up, and straightens his collar. “Good day.”

#jonsa #actually jonsa #jon x sansa #rejection fic #ft. Patrek Mallister

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wendynerdwrites · 8 years ago

Text

Recovered Jonsa Fic #16: Ya’Aburnee

Another fic repost!

The crypts seem warmer these days. In fact, they’re perhaps the warmest place in the castle now. At least, they are to Jon.

In his youngest days, he sought out cold and solitude to think and find comfort. But that changed when the two of them found one another again. It didn’t matter where they were. They could be lying naked next a roaring fire in the royal apartments. They could be huddled up in his war tent during one her surprise visits, a layer of canvas being all that lay between them and the roaring, icy winds outside. But when she was with him, things were warm, cozy, and clear. He could think better after having spent just a few precious moments with her after an absence.

Jon sighs as he descends the steps of the crypts, carrying his lantern past the various monuments of past Starks. The war. Gods. The first several times Sansa would steal away to the Wall and even beyond to see him, he’d scold her, beg her not to do it, not to risk her safety again. The third time, he even swore he’d not share her bed out of anger, hoping it would deter her. But he broke that vow of course. He’d been a fool, and desperate. Somehow, Sansa always seemed to show up when he was at the very end of his rope, at the brink of giving up. But she’d appear and things became clearer, he was reminded of what he was fighting for, and inspiration would come.

Most of his best ideas, battle plans, tactical maneuvers came to him either in the middle of the night or the morning after he lay with Sansa. Even his men picked up on this. It became a running joke among the army. The secrets to defeating the Others lay within the Queen in the North’s cunny.

The only time she didn’t come at a desperate point, she sent a letter to him, informing him that she would not be able to visit him for a long while, and bid him instead to journey back to Winterfell when he could. “I want you to meet your firstborn.”

It was all the inspiration he needed, really.

Jon gives a groan of relief as he reaches his destination in the crypts, bends his aching knees and sits upon the stone bench in front of the newest statue in the hall. Arya, bless her, had proposed the idea of installing it. It wasn’t customary, but his second-eldest had insisted. “So our Father can visit Mother for as long as he likes.”

A good thing, too. At three-and-seventy, Jon’s legs are not what they used to be. The wound in his leg that the wildlings gave him all those years ago began troubling him again around his fortieth year. His hips were good, but his knees ache easily. His left shoulder is often in agony. It’s why whenever he carries something--- at the moment, a writing board, parchment, quill, and ink--- it’s slung under his right arm.

He takes a few moments to adjust and wait for the strain on his joints to ease, then sets up his writing supplies. He looks up at the face of the marble statue. It did not depict his wife as he’d seen her last: grey-haired, with lines about her mouth, brows, and eyes. No, it showed Sansa at the height of her youth. Lyanna spared no expense in the commissioning of this monument, having the artist combined stone of different hues to match the burning auburn of her hair, the red of her lips. Even the eyes of the thing had gem studs of sapphire and onyx.

It was easily the most extravagant tomb in the crypts.

Not that she’d been particularly keen on an extravagant burial in life. The construction of her tomb began before her death, when Maester Torwyn tearfully informed her that despite the amputation, the growth which began on her breast had migrated to other parts they could not reach and she had no more than a year left.

Sansa, being Sansa, had responded by being the most composed in the room, and promptly began preparations. And, by preparations, preparations for a pseudo-abdication in Lyanna’s favor.

Lyanna had refused to let her mother abdicate fully, though she was more than ready to take on the responsibilities of queenship. “You should spend your last year without the burden of rule on your shoulders. And I am more than happy to assume that weight in full,” their brilliant, beautiful, resilient daughter informed her mother, “But if you are to die, I will not let you die as anything but a queen.”

Lyanna was Princess Regent for a year while the entire family devoted their matriarch’s final year in this world to making it the very best it could be. Jon and Sansa traveled, they hosted banquets and balls, they indulged themselves. Sansa didn’t involve herself in too many of the burial arrangements, allowing Jon and their children to take care of most of it. But when Lyanna informed Sansa of the lengths they were going to honor her, Sansa had protested about the expense.

“I don’t deserve a tomb any finer than Jon or Father,” she insisted. But this was one matter where her family did not let her have her way during that final year.

If anyone deserved a tomb like this, it was the queen who restored the North, House Stark, got it through the winter and wars, and revolutionized the structure of the kingdom. One of the best decisions Jon ever made was abdicating his rule in her favor. At the time, he’d done it out of a combination of guilt, his new knowledge regarding his origins, and the affection for her that eventually blossomed into the love they shared for fifty years. But under Sansa’s rule, House Stark and the North went from famine, poverty, and near-death to unprecedented prosperity. She is the reason her family can afford such a monument to her, and will likely be able to afford such things for generations to come.

He’d said as much. Jon can almost hear her now, replying that he’d done just as much, that he deserved just as much, if not more credit, for the North’s success as she did. “None of this would have been possible without you. As a queen, I’ve only ever been as great as my king.”

Jon wasn’t a king. He was prince consort. He’d insisted on that himself when they wed. Given Robb’s will and his title prior to abdication, he wanted no doubts placed on Sansa’s authority and position. But that didn’t stop Sansa from calling him her king in private. Though he’d certainly done his part in aiding her rule--- Jon had many accomplishments, before, during, and after the War for the Dawn, to be proud of--- Sansa overstated his contribution. She was the queen, and all he did for her, he did with her. And she did yet more. His greatest accomplishment, in his mind, was giving Sansa the support and inspiration she needed to discover her own greatness over the years. They’d done that for each other.

Not that the matter of whether he deserved just as fine a tomb as she was too great an issue. Sansa’s grave has an adjoining, half-finished chamber, specifically so that when the time comes, he shall lie beside her. She even went so far as to insist that, at the very least, when he died and his own statue was erected, that it would be constructed to hold the hand of hers.

Everyone agreed.

Jon looks at the partially-constructed tomb beside his wife’s resting place. He sighs again, dips a quill in the ink, and begins to write.

Sweetling,

I sit at the bench now, as I have now three-hundred-and-sixty-four times before. I look at the place set aside for me by your side, and there’s a selfish yearning there. The only thing that keeps me from willing myself to die is the thought of the pain it shall bring our family. I will not betray them by leaving them before I absolutely have to. But I want to, so badly. I miss you.

Robb’s son is still thriving. When he’s not draining his exhausted mother’s breasts, he’s asleep or howling like a beast. The lungs on that boy. I can already tell that a special bond is developing between Little Torrhen and his big sister. The moment Kitty gathers him into her chubby arms, he quiets. It’s adorable.

Alysanne and Brandon now come up to my waist. Alysanne wishes to leave the nursery room and get her own proper ladies’ chambers now. Not that she says so. She knows that Litsa is still too young to make it through the night without her big sister sleeping beside her. Alysanne is as considerate and thoughtful as she ever was. But I see it in her eyes. She’s growing up, and wants that acknowledged. And I expect she may finally broach the subject some time around Litsa’s fifth Name Day.

Gods, they’re all so beautiful. Litsa’s name is prophetic, since she looks just like you. She’s getting to the age, though, where she wants to be a “big girl” and is starting to rebel against her nickname. I’ve asked her to forgive me, but I cannot quite bring myself to call her “Sansa” just yet. But I appease her in other ways. If you told my young self that I’d spend many hours a day playing with dolls, I’d have laughed in your face. But I’m sure you’re laughing now, just as you laughed at me when Alysanne and Arya were young. Yes, I am once again spending many an hour sitting on a rug, dressing up and holding little wooden and porcelain people in dresses and acting out the stories of Jenny of Oldstones and Queen Rhaenyra. In fact, I’m doing it more than I did even when our daughters were girls.

Though I did resume many of my state duties after you left, I’m not performing as much as I used to. By choice, I assure you. I prefer to spend as much time as I can with the little ones. I don’t feel too guilty. We’ve trained our girl well. She doesn’t need me. I think she just pretends otherwise to humor me. She doesn’t need me to help with matters of state. I assume any need she or any of the others have for me is more emotional than political.

Not that I mind. My brain isn’t what it used to be. I mind that. Up until the very end, you gave me bursts of energy and inspiration. But with you gone, I don’t have them anymore. Coming down here, writing to you each day certainly helps, but it’s not the same.

Do you miss me, as I miss you? Or are you so busy, wherever you are, with Father and our brothers and your mother and Jeyne and Beth and all those we lost that you don’t have time to miss me the same way? If those Seven Southern Gods are right, you’re in one of those Heavens they speak of, and they say there is no unhappiness there. I don’t blame you for this. Especially since you can probably see and hear me in a way that I can’t see and hear you.

But I do hope you’re able to set aside a place for me beside you, wherever you are, for when we reunite, just as a place beside you has been set aside for me here.

What do you look like, wherever you are? You in your youth is how they depict you here in the crypt, of course. But I’m not sure that I hope that’s the case in the world beyond. Some aspects of your youth, I hope, are with you. That you have both of your breasts, that your ankles, back, and neck do not ail you anymore. And of course, you know how I always felt about that red hair of yours.

But I found your grey just as beautiful. Your lined faced just as lovely. I know you spent a good thirty years or so lamenting your “fading” beauty, but you were always as stunning to me, from the day we wed to our last night together.

Can you change how I shall see you when I join you? So I can see you as you were at any and all points in your life? Would you want me to do the same? Do you want me to greet you in the next life looking as I do now--- stooped, greying, balding, wrinkly--- or as I was in my prime?

What do you want me to say, when we meet each other again?

I miss you so much, Sansa. I have these letters. I have the children and grandchildren, and I see so much of you in them. But there’s no replacing you.

Sometimes I’m upset with you, Sansa, especially late at night, when I’m truly alone, and the cold envelopes me. When you made that request of me. Perhaps if you’d not done it, or not done it in the godswood, you’d be here now. I’m not a superstitious, even a pious man, but these days I wonder. You were so considerate most of your life, Sansa, but this was perhaps the most selfish thing you ever did. Did it ever occur to you that living without you would be as painful for me as it would be for you?

I don’t think about that day as often as one would expect, despite the significance of what happened that day in the godswood. Despite the joy I felt then, I think the reality of all that was said only really hit me the morning after, when I knew for sure that it wasn’t a dream, that you would really be mine. I remember that day more vividly, more often. I remember how proud I was to lead you on my arm through the Great Hall, the frightening issue of telling our siblings having been accomplished the prior evening. How excited I was for us to announce our joy to the court. The first day you were mine, officially, eternally, publicly, and I knew no one could take you from me or lay claim to you.

I didn’t consider the implications of the other thing you said. That little Valyrian request and all the things that making that promise to you meant. I wanted you so, so badly. And I never thought it would come to be, that I’d keep that promise. Or that you expected me to, that it was anything more than a passionate endearment on your part. We were fighting a war, after all. I was on the front lines. The only times I feared that it might happen back then was when you made your little visits. And you just had to whisper it to me beneath the furs. “Ya’aburnee”, “Ya’aburnee.”

With all that you did just to survive, you were ready to die if it meant not living without me.

So much love, so much beauty, but so much pain in that strange, foreign little phrase.

There were times it made me feel like I ruled the world. Gods, Sansa. No one, not one person had ever expressed such a thing to me. That I was just so needed, so wanted, so valued, so loved. Whenever I was needed, it was for whatever practical use I had for others. I was needed as a ready blade, a willing laborer, a spy, a leader for the army, sure. I was needed as countless other men were needed. I was needed as a political pawn to solidify the powers of others, as a supplier, as a defender.

At home, as much as you, Robb, Arya, Father, Bran, and Rickon loved me, I was far from needed. I was in many ways unwanted, and not just by your mother. If I were lost, surely you all would mourn, but you didn’t need me. It’s why it was so easy for me to join the Watch. As much as you loved me, none of you needed me. Not even Arya.

That I was one of many, needed thanks to a lack of options and men, but still disposable and unimportant ultimately, even as I was groomed for leadership, was impressed upon me. Even when I was Lord Commander, I was murdered and replaced.

As great a team as we were together even before we confessed our feelings to each other, I wasn’t sure then that you needed me. As often as you decried yourself as stupid and weak in those days, you were truly dazzling. It was bewildering for me to witness your own blindness in regards to all that you were. And as much as I did to try and build you up, I was sure that if I were lost, you’d find another to help you. You were the indispensable one, as far as I was concerned. Countless people needed you, to lead, to inspire, to save. Not me, despite what any prophecy might have implied.

But that day, in the godswood… “Of course I’ll marry you,” you’d said, snowflakes melting on your soft lips. “Under one condition.”

I remember expecting your condition to be of the same political precision you always conducted. You wanted me to understand that I’d be your prince consort, not a king. That I’d lost a crown for good the day I handed it to you. Or I expected that you’d ask that I not march to the front lines and stay behind, commanding the armies from the safety of Winterfell’s walls. That was the only condition I feared.

But still I asked, “What?”

“Ya’aburnee,” you replied. And, not having taken up an education in Valyrian dialects as you had, I of course had to ask for clarification.

“Bury me. Outlive me. So I never have to live without you.”

There was a part of me that wondered if this was your way of saying that you wouldn’t marry me if I returned to the battlefield, so I hesitated. And you reassured me.

And I never felt so loved, so needed, so ready to take on the world. You needed me, couldn’t fathom living without me. Me, as I was. Not as another man, who was willing to stay behind as armies fought for him, commanding from safety and comfort as other men were slaughtered on the field. You couldn’t ask me to do that, because you knew who I was, understood who I was, accepted it. Accepted me, and needed me.

Loved me as I’d never been loved before.

And somehow, whenever I was in the middle of the fray and ready to give up, sure we would all perish, wondering what the point was of continuing to try, you’d suddenly appear. It didn’t matter how many times I railed at you for endangering yourself. When I reached my lowest point, I’d return to my tent to find you there, reminding me not only of all I had to fight for, but all I had to live for. Whispering to me beneath the furs as I moved within you, “I love you. Ya’burnee. I love you. Ya’Aburnee.”

You never stopped saying it. Even the letter you sent, telling me that Alysanne was coming. “I love you. Ya’Aburnee.”

It’s not fair. You were younger, and healthier. Until that bloody, leeching canker appeared.

How could you ever be sure that you could not live without me, Sansa? I never thought I could, yet I am. And I don’t much care for it. And I’m not sure I can do it for much longer. The rest of the family is the only thing keeping me here, but it’s not complete without you. You’ve never met little Torrhen. And I fear Cat, Litsa, Neddie, and Jonny are too young to remember you when they get older. It anything, that makes me even more eager to leave. It doesn’t seem right for me to live longer enough to be remembered when you haven’t.

I need to stop with self-pity. It was a nasty habit that only you managed to completely break me of. But you’re gone now, Sansa. And as much as I want to do you proud, I need to be with you even more.

I… I need you more than they need me.

I’m glad you made sure that a tomb next to yours was started. I suppose you weren’t entirely selfish. Sure, you left me, but you started the hole, the resting place for me beside you. Ya’aburnee. Or something. I never did manage to master Valyrian, High or otherwise.

We bury each other.

This is the last letter to you, Sansa. I think I am ready to go. Everything else, I’ll say in person.

I love you, Ya’aburnee,

Jon.

Jon Stark Targaryen, Prince of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Prince Consort of the Three Realms of Winter, Hero of the Dawn, former King of the Three Realms of Winter, former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Lord Consort of Winterfell, Hand of the Queen, Council Advisor, Lord General of the Winter Armies, Husband and Consort to Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the Three Realms of Winter, Lady of Winterfell, and Protector of the Realm, Father to Queen Alysanne I of the Three Realms of Winter, Prince Brandon of Winterfell, and Princess Arya of Winterfell and grandfather to the successive issue, died on the Day of the FIfth month, Year 356 after Aegon’s Landing, the night of the one year anniversary of his wife’s death.

Every day from her passing to his, even on the day of his death, Prince Jon wrote Queen Sansa letters, depositing them in a small hole built into the wall of tomb for that use. He was buried a week later beside his beloved wife, a statue of him at the height of his legendary military victories, erected atop his grave, joining hands with his wife’s monument per the instructions of their will. Though entry to the famous Winterfell crypts have been closed to the general public since their creation, the painting of their tomb by their great-great-great grandson, Prince Jon ‘the Dreamer’ of Winterfell, has gone down in history as one of the most romantic and well-beloved historical pieces of art in the North and all of Westeros, with prints and copies of the painting a popular, mass-produced piece. The letters which Prince Jon wrote to his wife were excavated from her grave a century later (and returned and preserved within their tomb shortly after once they were copied) and, along with the rest of the royal couple correspondence, have been published and become timelessly popular reading among each generation in the Three Realms and Beyond over the seven centuries since the royal couple’s death.

The romantic phrase of ‘Ya’Aburnee’, originally only a popular endearment in Eastern countries of native Valyrian speakers, has become a widespread expression of love within Westeros thanks to Sansa and Jon, with the phrase becoming a customary addition to wedding vows all over the world.

#Jonsa #Jon x Sansa #Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #fic repost project #long post

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